THE  TRUFFLERS 


-. 


•  * 


'Pete  uses  the  word  'truffler'  to  mean  a  young  woman  who  turns  from  duty 
to  the  pursuit  of  enjoyment" 


THE    TRUFFLERS 

A  STORT 


SAMUEL  MERWIN 

Author  of  Anthony  the  Absolute,  The  Charmed  Life  of  M!M  Austin, 
The  Honey  Bee,  etc. 


Illustrations  by  Frank  Snapp 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1916 

TH«    BoBBS-MlRRILL    COMPANY 


PRESS    OF 
BRAUNWORTH    &    CO. 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  GIRL  IN  THE  PLAID  COAT 1 

II    THE  SEVENTH-STORY  MEN 14 

III  JACOB  ZANIN 21 

IV  A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  IN  PARANOIA     ....  31 
V    PETER  TREADS  THE  HEIGHTS 42 

VI  THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE  ....  54 

VII  PETER  THINKS  ABOUT  THE  PICTURES    ...  68 

VIII    SUE  WALKS  OVER  A  HILL 76 

IX  THE  NATURE  FILM  PRODUCING  Co.,  INC.   .     .  89 

X    PETER  THE  MAGNIFICENT 101 

XI    PROPINQUITY-PLUS 115 

XII    THE  MOMENT  AFTER 127 

XIII  Two  GIRLS  OF  THE  VILLAGE 133 

XIV  THE  WORM  TURNS  FROM  BOOKS  TO  LIFE  .     .  142 
XV    ZANIN  MAKES  HIMSELF  FELT 162 

XVI  THE  WORM  PROPOSES  MARRIAGE  IN  GENERAL  172 

XVII    ENTER  GRACE  DERRING •.  179 

XVIII    THE  WORM  CONSIDERS  LOVE 189 

XIX    BUSINESS  INTERVENES 196 

XX    PETER  GETS  A  NOTE 210 

XXI    OYSTERS  AT  JIM'S 219 

XXII  A  BACHELOR  AT  LARGE     .  235 


2131418 


CONTENTS  —  Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII    THE  BUZZER 243 

XXXV    THE  WILD  PAGAN  PERSON 257 

XXV    HE  WHO  HESITATED 265 

XXVI    ENTER  MARIA  TONIFETTI 277 

XXVII    PETER  Is  DRIVEN  TO  ACT 289 

XXVIII  SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER      ....  299 

XXIX    AT  THE  CORNER  OF  TENTH 312 

XXX  FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY     ....  320 

XXXI    A  PAIR  OF  RED  BOOTS 331 

XXXII    CHAPTER  ONE 347 

XXXIII  EARTHY  BROWNS  AND  GREENS 364 

XXXIV  ONE  DOES  FORGET  ABOUT  HAPPINESS    .     .     .  380 
XXXV    THE  NATURE  FILM      . 394 

XXXVI    APRIL!  APRIL! 404 

XXXVII    REENTER  MARIA  TONIFETTI 411 

XXXVIII    PETER  STEALS  A  PLAY 424 

XXXIX    A  MOMENT  OF  MELODRAMA 437 

XL    His  UNCONQUERABLE  SOUL 445 


THE  TRUFFLERS 


THE  TRUFFLERS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   GIRL   IN    THE   PLAID   COAT 

PETER  ERICSON  MANN  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  let  his  hands  fall  listlessly  from  the 
typewriter  to  his  lap. 

He  raised  them  again  and  laboriously  pecked  out 
a  few  words. 

It  was  no  use. 

He  got  up,  walked  to  one  of  the  front  windows 
of  the  dingy  old  studio  and  peered  gloomily  out  at 
the  bare  trees  and  brown  grass  patches  of  Wash- 
ington Square. 

Peter  was  a  playwright  of  three  early  (and  par- 
tial) successes,  and  two  more  recent  failures.  He 
was  thirty-three  years  old;  and  a  typical  New 
Yorker,  born  in  Iowa.  He  dressed  conspicuously 
well,  making  it  a  principle  when  in  funds  to  stock 

1 


2  THE   TRUFFLERS 

up  against  lean  seasons  to  come.  He  worried  a 
good  deal  and  kept  his  savings  of  nearly  six  thou- 
sand dollars  (to  the  existence  of  which  sum  he 
never  by  any  chance  alluded)  in  five  different  sav- 
ings banks.  He  wore  large  horn-rimmed  eye- 
glasses (not  spectacles)  with  a  heavy  black  ribbon 
attached,  and  took  his  Art  almost  as  seriously  as 
himself.  You  know  him  publicly  as  Eric  Mann. 

For  six  months  Peter  had  been  writing  words 
where  ideas  were  imperatively  demanded.  Lately 
he  had  torn  up  the  last  of  these  words.  He  had 
waited  in  vain  for  the  divine  uprush;  there  had 
come  no  tingle  of  delighted  nerves,  no  humming 
vitality,  no  punch.  And  as  for  his  big  scene,  in  Act 
III,  it  was  a  morass  of  sodden,  tangled,  dramatic 
concepts. 

His  theme  this  year  was  the  modern  bachelor 
girl;  but  to  save  his  life  he  couldn't  present  her  con- 
vincingly as  a  character  in  a  play — perhaps  because 
these  advanced,  outspoken  young  women  irritated 
him  too  deeply  to  permit  of  close  observation.  Re- 
ally, they  frightened  him.  He  believed  in  marriage, 
the  old-fashioned  woman,  the  home. 

It  had  reached  the  point,  a  month  back,  where  he 
could  no  longer  even  react  to  stimulants.  He  had 
revived  an  old  affair  with  a  pretty  manicure  girl 


THE    GIRL    IN    THE    PLAID    COAT      3 

without  stirring  so  much  as  a  flutter  of  excitement 
within  himself.  This  was  Maria  Tonifetti,  of  the 
sanitary  barber  shop  of  Marius  in  the  basement  of 
the  Parisian  Restaurant.  He  had  tried  getting 
drunk ;  which  made  him  ill  and  induced  new  depths 
of  melancholy. 

No  one  ever  saw  his  name  any  more.  No  one, 
he  felt  certain,  ever  would  see  it.  He  could  look 
back  now  on  the  few  years  of  his  success  in  a  spirit 
of  awful  calm.  He  felt  that  he  had  had  genius. 
But  the  genius  had  burned  out.  All  that  remained 
to  him  was  to  live  for  a  year  or  two  (or  three) 
watching  that  total  of  nearly  six  thousand  dollars 
shrink — shrink — and  then  the  end  of  everything. 
Well,  he  would  not  be  the  first.  .  .  . 

One  faint  faded  joy  had  lately  been  left  to  Peter, 
one  sorry  reminder  of  the  days  when  the  magical 
words,  the  strangely  hypnotic  words,  "Eric  Mann," 
had  spoken,  sung,  shouted  from  half  the  bill-boards 
in  town.  Over  beyond  Sixth  Avenue,  hardly  five 
minutes'  walk  through  the  odd  tangle  of  wandering 
streets,  the  tenements  and  ancient  landmarks  and 
subway  excavations  and  little  triangular  breathing 
places  that  make  up  the  Greenwich  Village  of  to-day, 
there  had  lingered  one  faded,  torn  twenty- four-sheet 
poster,  advertising  "The  Buzzard,  by  Eric  Mann." 


When  he  was  bluest  lately,  Peter  had  occasionally 
walked  over  there  and  stood  for  a  while  gazing  at 
this  lingering  vestige  of  his  name. 

He  went  over  there  now,  in  soft  hat  and  light 
overcoat,  and  carrying  his  heavy  cane — hurried  over 
there,  in  fact — across  the  Square  and  on  under  the 
Sixth  Avenue  elevated  into  that  quaint  section  of  the 
great  city  which  socialists,  anarchists,  feminists, 
Freudian  psycho-analysts  of  self,  magazine  writers, 
Jewish  intellectuals,  sculptors  and  painters  of  all 
nationalities  and  grades,  sex  hygiene  enthusiasts, 
theatrical  press-agents  and  various  sorts  of  youth- 
ful experimenters  in  living  share  with  the  merely 
poor. 

He  stopped  at  a  familiar  spot  on  the  curb  by  a 
familiar  battered  lamp-post  and  peered  across  the 
street. 

Then  he  started — and  stared.  Surprise  ran  into 
bewilderment,  bewilderment  into  utter  dejection. 

The  faded,  torn  twenty-four-sheet  poster  had 
vanished. 

A  new  brand  of  cut  plug  tobacco  was  advertised 
there  now. 

Ragged  children  of  the  merely  poor,  cluttering 
pavement  and  sidewalk,  fell  against  him  in  their 
play.  Irritably  he  brushed  them  aside. 


THE    GIRL    IN    THE    PLAID    COAT       5 

It  was  indeed  the  end. 

A  young  woman  was  crossing  the  street  toward 
him,  nimbly  dodging  behind  a  push  cart  and  in  front 
of  a  coal  truck.  Deep  in  self,  he  lowered  his  gaze 
and  watched  her.  So  intent  was  his  stare  that  the 
girl  stopped  short,  one  foot  on  the  curb,  slowly  low- 
ered the  apple  she  was  eating,  and  looked  straight 
at  him. 

She  was  shaped  like  a  boy,  he  decided — good 
shoulders,  no  hips,  fine  hands  (she  wore  no  gloves, 
though  the  March  air  was  crisp)  and  trim  feet  in 
small,  flat-heeled  tan  boots.  Her  hair,  he  thought, 
was  cut  short.  He  was  not  certain,  for  her 
"artistic"  tarn  o'shanter  covered  it  and  hung  low  on 
her  neck  behind.  He  moved  a  step  to  one  side  and 
looked  more  closely.  Yes,  it  was  short.  Not  docked, 
in  the  current  fashion,  but  cut  close  to  her  head,  like 
a  boy's. 

She  stepped  up  on  the  curb  now  and  confronted 
him.  He  noted  that  her  suit  was  of  brown  stuff, 
loosely  and  comfortably  cut;  and  that  the  boyish 
outer  coat,  which  she  wore  swinging  open,  was  of  a 
rough  plaid.  Then  he  became  aware  of  her  eyes. 
They  were  deep  green  and  vivid.  Her  skin  was  a 
clear  olive,  prettily  tinted  by  air  and  exercise  .  .  . 
Peter  suddenly  knew  that  he  was  turning  red. 


6  THE    TRUFFLERS 

She  spoke  first. 

"Hadn't  we  better  say  something?"  was  her  re- 
mark. Then  she  took  another  bite  of  the  apple,  and 
munched  it  with  honest  relish. 

"Very  likely  we  would  better,"  he  managed  to  re- 
ply— rather  severely,  for  the  "had  better"  phrase 
always  annoyed  him. 

"It  seems  as  if  I  must  have  met  you  somewhere," 
he  ventured  next. 

"No,  we  haven't  met." 

"My  name  is  Mann." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  know  it." 

"Then  suppose  you  tell  me  yours  ?" 

"Why?" 

Peter  could  not  think  of  a  reason  why.  Deeply  as 
he  was  supposed  to  understand  women,  here  was  a 
new  variety.  She  was  inclined  neither  to  flirt  nor  to 
run  away. 

"How  is  it  that  you  know  who  I  am  ?"  he  asked, 
sparring  for  time. 

She  gave  a  careless  shrug.  "Oh,  most  every  one 
is  known,  here  in  the  Village." 

Peter  was  always  at  his  best  when  recognized  as 
the  Eric  Mann.  His  spirits  rose  a  bit. 

"Might  I  suggest  that  we  have  a  cup  of  tea  some- 
where ?" 


THE    GIRL    IN    THE    PLAID    COAT      7 

She  knit  her  brows.  "Yes,"  she  replied  slowly, 
even  doubtfully,  "you  might." 

"Of  course,  if  you — " 

"Jim's  isn't  far.    Let's  go  there." 

Jim's  was  an  oyster  and  chop  emporium  of  ancient 
fame  in  the  Village.  They  sat  at  a  rear  table.  The 
place  was  empty  save  for  an  old  waiter  who  shuffled 
through  the  sprinkling  of  sawdust  on  the  floor,  and 
a  fat  grandson  of  the  original  Jim  who  stood  by  the 
open  grill  .that  was  set  in  the  wall  at  the  rear  end  of 
the  oyster  bar. 

Over  the  tea  Peter  said,  expanding  now — "Per- 
haps this  is  reason  enough  for  you  to  tell  me  who 
you  are." 

"Perhaps  what  is?" 

He  smilingly  passed  the  toast. 

She  took  a  slice,  and  considered  it. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "if  I  am  not  to  know,  how 
•on  earth  am  I  to  manage  seeing  you  again  ?" 

She  slowly  inclined  her  head.    "That's  just  it." 

It  was  Peter's  turn  to  knit  his  brows. 

"How  can  I  be  sure  that  I  want  you  to  see  me 
again  ?" 

He  waved  an  exasperated  hand.  "Then  why  are 
we  here?" 

"To  find  out." 


8  THE   TRUFFLERS 

At  least  he  could  smoke.  He  opened  his  cigarette 
case.  Then,  though  he  never  felt  right  about 
women  smoking,  he  extended  it  toward  her. 

"Thanks,"  said  she,  taking  one  and  casually  light- 
ing it.  Yes,  she  had  fine  hands.  And  he  had  noted 
when  she  took  off  her  coat  and  reached  up  to  hang 
it  on  the  wall  rack,  her  youth-like  suppleness  of 
body.  A  provocative  person ! 

"I've  seen  some  of  your  plays,"  she  observed,  el- 
bows on  table,  chin  on  hand,  gazing  at  the  smoke- 
wraiths  of  her  cigarette.  "Two  or  three.  Odd 
Change  and  Anchored  and — what  was  it  called  ?" 

"The  Buzzard?" 

"Yes,  The  Buzzard.    They  were  dreadful." 

The  color  slowly  left  Peter's  face.  The  girl  was 
speaking  without  the  slightest  self-consciousness  or 
wish  to  offend.  She  meant  it. 

Peter  managed  to  recover"  some  part  of  his  poise. 
"Well !"  he  said.  Then :  "If  they  were  all  dreadful, 
why  didn't  you  stop  after  the  first?" 

"Oh,"— she  waved  her  cigarette — "Odd  Change 
came  to  town  when  I  was  in  college,  and — " 

"So  you're  a  college  girl  ?" 

"Yes.  And  a  crowd  of  us  went.  That  one  wasn't 
so  bad  as  the  others.  You  know  your  tricks  well 
enough— especially  in  comedy,  carpentered  comedy. 


JHE   GIRL   IN   THE   PLAID   COAT      9 

Theatrically,  I  suppose  you're  really  pretty  good  or 
your  things  wouldn't  succeed.  It  is  when  you  try  to 
deal  with  life — and  with  women — that  you're 
.  .  .  ."  Words  failed  her.  She  smoked  in  silence. 

"I'm  what?"  he  ventured.    "The  limit?"  , 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  very  thoughtful.  "Since 
you've  said  it." 

"All  right,"  he  cried,  aiming  at  a  gay  humor  and 
missing  heavily — "but  now,  having  slapped  me  in 
the  face  and  thrown  me  out  in  the  snow,  don't  you 
think  that  you'd  better — "  He  hesitated,  watching 
for  a  smile  that  failed  to  make  its  appearance. 

"That  I'd  better  what?" 

"Well—tell  me  a  little  more  ?" 

"I  was  wondering  if  I  could.  The  difficulty  is, 
it's  the  whole  thing — your  attitude  toward  life — the 
perfectly  conventional,  perfectly  unimaginative 
home  and  mother  stuff,  your  hopeless  sentimentality 
about  women,  the  slushy,  horrible,  immoral  Broad- 
way falseness  that  lies  back  of  everything  you  do — 
the  Broadway  thing,  always.  Even  in  your  comedy, 
good  as  that  sometimes  is.  Your  insight  into  life  is 
just  about  that  of  a  hardened  director  of  one-reel 
films.  What  I've  been  wondering  since  we  met  this 
afternoon — you  see,  I  didn't  know  that  we  were  go- 
ing to  meet  in  this  way  .  .  ." 


10  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Naturally." 

".  .  .  is  whether  it  would  be  any  use  to  try 
and  help  you.  You  have  ability  enough." 

"Thanks  for  that!" 

"Don't  let's  trifle !  You  see,  if  it  is  any  use  at  all 
to  try  to  get  a  little — just  a  little — truth  into  the 
American  theater,  why,  those  of  us  that  believe  in 
truth  owe  it  to  our  faith  to  get  to  work  on  the  men 
that  supply  the  plays." 

"Doubtless."  Peter's  mind  was  racing  in  a  dozen 
directions  at  once.  This  extraordinary  young  per- 
son had  hit  close ;  that  much  he  knew.  He  wondered 
rather  helplessly  whether  the  shattered  and  scat- 
tered remnants  of  his  self-esteem  could  ever  be  put 
together  again  so  the  cracks  wouldn't  show. 

The  confusing  thing  was  that  he  couldn't,  at  the 
moment,  feel  angry  toward  the  girl;  she  was  too 
odd  and  too  pretty.  Already  he  was  conscious  of  a 
considerable  emotional  stir,  caused  by  her  mere 
presence  there  across  the  table.  She  reached  out 
now  for  another  cigarette. 

"I  think,"  said  he  gloomily,  "that  you'd  better 
tell  me  your  name." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'll  tell  you  how  you  can 
find  me  out." 

"How?" 


THE    GIRL    IN    THE    PLAID    COAT     11 

"You  would  have  to  take  a  little  trouble." 

"Glad  to." 

"Come  to  the  Crossroads  Theater  to-night,  in 
Tenth  Street." 

"Oh— that  little  place  of  Zanin's." 

She  nodded.    "That  little  place  of  Zanin's." 

"I've  never  been  there." 

"I  know  you  haven't.  None  of  the  people  that 
might  be  helped  by  it  ever  come.  You  see,  we  aren't 
professional,  artificialized  actors.  We  are  just  try- 
ing to  deal  naturally  with  bits  of  real  life — from  the 
Russian,  and  things  that  are  written  here  in  the  Vil- 
lage. Jacob  Zanin  is  a  big  man — a  fine  natural  man 
— with  a  touch  01  genius,  I  think." 

Peter  was  silent.  He  knew  this  brilliant,  hulking 
Russian  Jew,  and  disliked  him ;  even  feared  him  in 
a  way,  as  he  feared  others  of  his  race  with  what  he 
felt  to  be  their  hard  clear  minds,  their  vehement 
idealism,  their  insistent  pushing  upward.  The  play 
that  had  triumphantly  displaced  his  last  failure  at 
the  Astoria  Theater  was  written  by  a  Russian  Jew. 

She  added :  "In  some  ways  it  is  the  only  interest- 
ing theater  in  New  York." 

"There  is  so  much  to  see." 

"I  know."  She  sighed.  "And  we  don't  play  every 
night,  of  course.  Only  Friday  and  Saturday." 


12  THE   TRUFFLERS 

He  was  regarding  her  now  with  kindling  interest. ' 
"What  do  you  do  there?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  I'm  playing  a  boy  this 
month  in  Zanin's  one-act  piece,  Any  Street.  And 
sometimes  I  dance.  I  was  on  my  way  there  when  I 
met  you— was  due  at  three  o'clock." 

"For  a  rehearsal,  I  suppose." 

She  nodded. 

"You  won't  make  it.    It's  four-fifteen  now." 

"I  know  it." 

"You're  playing  a  boy,"  he  mused.  "I  wonder  if 
that  is  why  you  cut  off  your  hair."  He  felt  brutally 
daring  in  saying  this.  He  had  never  been  direct 
with  women  or  with  direct  women.  But  this  girl 
created  her  own  atmosphere  which  quite  enveloped 
him. 

"Yes,"  said  she  simply,  "I  had  to  for  the  part." 

Never  would  he  have  believed  that  the  attractive 
woman  lived  who  would  do  that ! 

Abruptly,  as  if  acting  on  an  impulse,  she  pushed 
back  her  chair.  "I'm  going,"  she  remarked ;  adding : 
"You'll  find  you  have  friends  who  know  me." 

She  was  getting  into  her  coat  now.  He  hurried 
awkwardly  around  the  table,  and  helped  her. 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  suddenly  all  questions,  now 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE   PLAID   COAT    13 

that  he  was  losing  her — "You  live  here  in  the  Vil- 
lage, I  take  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Alone?" 

She  nearly  smiled.    "No,  with  another  girl." 

"Do  I  know  her?" 

She  pursed  her  lips.  "I  doubt  it."  A  moment 
more-  of  hesitation,  then:  "Her  name  is  Deane, 
Betty  Deane." 

"I've  heard  that  name.  Yes,  I've  seen  her — at 
the  Black  and  White  ball  this  winter!  A  blonde — 
pretty — went  as  a  Picabia  dancer." 

They  were  mounting  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk 
(for  Jim's  is  in  a  basement). 

"Good-by,"  said  she.  "Will  you  come — to-night 
or  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "To-night."  And  walked  in  a 
daze  back  to  the  rooms  on  Washington  Square. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   SEVENTH-STORY   MEN 

NOT  until  he  was  crossing  Sixth  Avenue,  un- 
der the  elevated  road,  did  it  occur  to  him 
that  she  had  deliberately  broken  her  rehearsal  ap- 
pointment to  have  tea  with  him  and  then  as  deliber- 
ately, had  left  him  for  the  rehearsal.  He  had 
interested  her;  then,  all  at  once,  he  had  ceased  to 
interest  her.  It  was  not  the  first  time  Peter  had  had 
this  experience  with  women,  though  none  of  the 
others  had  been  so  frank  about  it. 

Frank,  she  certainly  was ! 

Resentments  rose.  Why  on  earth  had  he  sat 
there  so  meekly  and  let  her  go  on  like  that — he,  the 
more  or  less  well-known  Eric  Mann!  Had  he  no 
force  of  character  at  all  ?  No  dignity  ? 

Suppose  she  had  to  write  plays  to  suit  the  whims 
of  penny-splitting  Broadway  managers  who  had 
never  heard  of  Andreyev  and  Tchekov,  were  bored 

14 


THE   SEVENTH-STORY   MEN         15 

by  Shaw  and  Shakespeare  and  thought  an  optimist 
was  an  eye  doctor — where  would  she  get  off ! 

During  the  short  block  between  Sixth  Avenue 
and  the  Square,  anger  conquered  depression.  When 
he  entered  the  old  brick  apartment  building  he  was 
muttering.  When  he  left  the  elevator  and  walked 
along  the  dark  corridor  to  the  rooms  he  was  consid- 
ering reprisals. 

Peter  shared  the  dim  old  seventh-floor  apartment 
with  two  fellow  bachelors,  Henry  Sidenham  Lowe 
and  the  Worm.  The  three  were  sometimes  known 
as  the  Seventh-Story  Men.  The  phrase  was  Hy 
Lowe's  and  referred  to  the  newspaper  stories  of  that 
absurd  kidnaping  escapade — the  Esther  MacLeod 
case,  it  was — back  in  1913.  The  three  were  a  bit 
younger  then. 

Hy  Lowe  was  a  slim  young  man  with  small  fea- 
tures that  appeared  to  be  gathered  in  the  middle  of 
his  face.  His  job  might  have  been  thought  odd 
anywhere  save  in  the  Greenwich  Village  region. 
After  some  years  of  newspaper  work  he  had  set- 
tled down  to  the  managing  editorship  of  a  mission- 
ary weekly  known  as  My  Brother's  Keeper.  Hy 
was  uncommunicative,  even  irreverent  regarding 
his  means  of  livelihood,  usually  referring  to  the  pa- 
per as  his  meal  ticket,  and  to  his  employer,  the  Rev- 


16  THE    TRUFFLERS 

erend  Doctor  Hubbell  Harkness  Wilde  (if  at  all)  as 
the  Walrus.  In  leisure  moments,  perhaps  as  a  chronic 
reaction  from  the  moral  strain  of  his  job,  Hy  af- 
fected slang,  musical  comedy  and  girls.  The  partly 
skinned  old  upright  piano  in  the  studio  was  his. 
And  he  had  a  small  gift  at  juggling  plates. 

The  Worm  was  a  philosopher ;  about  Peter's  age, 
sandy  in  coloring  but  mild  in  nature,  reflective  to 
the  point  of  self-effacement.  He  read  interminably, 
in  more  than  one  foreign  language  and  was  sup- 
posed to  write  book  reviews.  He  had  lived  in  odd 
corners  of  the  earth  and  knew  Gorki  personally. 
His  name  was  Henry  Bates. 

Peter  came  slowly  into  the  studio,  threw  off  coat 
and  hat  and  stood,  the  beginnings  of  a  complacent 
smile  on  his  face. 

"I've  got  my  girl,"  he  announced. 

"Now  that  you've  got  her,  what  you  gonna  do 
with  her?"  queried  Hy  Lowe,  without  turning  from 
the  new  song  hit  he  was  picking  out  on  the  piano. 

"What  am  I  gonna  do  with  her?"  mused  Peter, 
hands  deep  in  pockets,  more  and  more  pleased  with 
his  new  attitude  of  mind — "I'm  gonna  vivisect  her, 
of  course." 

"Ah,  cruel  one !"  hummed  Hy. 

"Well,  why  not!"  cried  Peter,  rousing.     "If  a 


JHE    SEVENTH-STORY    MEN         17 

girl  leaves  her  home  and  strikes  out  for  the  self- 
expression  thing,  doesn't  she  forfeit  the  considera- 
tion of  decent  people?  Isn't  she  fair  game?" 

Over  in  the  corner  by  a  window,  his  attention 
caught  by  this  outbreak,  the  Worm  looked  up  at 
Peter  and  reflected  for  a  moment.  He  was  deep  in 
a  Morris  chair,  the  Worm,  clad  only  in  striped  pa- 
jamas that  were  not  over-equipped  with  buttons, 
and  one  slipper  of  Chinese  straw  that  dangled  from 
an  elevated  foot. 

"Hey,  Pete — get  this !"  cried  Hy,  and  burst  into 
song. 

Peter  leaned  over  his  shoulder  and  sang  the 
choppy  refrain  with  him.  In  the  interest  of  accu- 
racy the  two  sang  it  again,  The  third  rendition 
brought  them  to  the  borders  of  harmony. 

The  Worm  looked  up  again  and  studied  Peter's 
back,  rather  absently  as  if  puzzling  him  out  and 
classifying  him.  He  knit  his  brows.  Then  his  eyes 
lighted,  and  he  turned  back  in  his  book,  fingering 
the  pages  with  a  mild  eagerness.  Finding  what  he 
sought,  he  read  thoughtfully  and  smiled.  He  closed 
his  book;  hitched  forward  to  the  old  flat-top  desk 
that  stood  between  the  windows;  lighted  a  caked 
brier  pipe;  and  after  considerable  scribbling  on 
scraps  of  paper  appeared  to  hit  upon  an  arrange- 


18  THE   TRUFFLERS 

ment  of  phrases  that  pleased  him.  These  phrases  he 
printed  out  painstakingly  on  the  back  of  a  calling 
card  which  he  tacked  up  (with  a  hair-brush)  on  the 
outer  side  of  the  apartment  door.  Then  he  went 
into  the  bedroom  to  dress. 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Hy  in  a  low  voice.  The 
two  were  fond  of  the  Worm,  but  they  never  talked 
with  him  about  their  girls. 

"That's  the  interesting  thing,"  said  Peter.  "I 
don't  know.  She's  plumb  mysterious.  All  she'd  tell 
was  that  she  is  playing  a  boy  at  that  little  Cross- 
roads Theater  of  Zanin's,  and  that  I'd  have  to  go 
there  to  find  her  out.  Going  to-night.  Want  to 
come  along?" 

"What  kind  of  a  looking  girl  ?" 

"Oh — pretty.  Extraordinary  eyes,  green  with 
brown  in  'em — but  green.  And  built  like  a  boy. 
Very  graceful." 

"Hm!"  mused  Hy. 

"Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"Sounds  like  Sue  Wilde." 

"Not—" 

"Yes,  the  Walrus's  child." 

"What's  she  doing,  playing  around  the  Village?" 

"Oh,  that's  an  old  story.    She  left  home — walked 


THE    SEVENTH-STORY    MEN         19 

right  out.  Calls  herself  modern.  She's  the  original 
lady  highbrow,  if  you  ask  me.  Sure  I'll  go  to  see 
her.  Even  if  she  never  could  see  me." 

Later,  Hy  remarked:  "The  old  boy  asked  me 
yesterday  if  I  had  her  address.  You  see  he  knows 
we  live  down  here  where  the  Village  crowds  circu- 
late." 

"Give  it  to  him?" 

"No.  Easy  enough  to  get,  of  course,  but  I 
ducked  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  hop  into  the  bath- 
tub. There's  time  enough.  Then  we  can  eat  at  the 
Parisian." 

Peter  settled  down  to  read  the  sporting  page  of 
the  evening  paper.  Shortly  the  Worm,  clad  now, 
drifted  back  to  the  Morris  chair. 

They  heard  Hy  shuffle  out  in  his  bath  slippers 
and  close  the  outer  door  after  him.  Then  he  opened 
the  door  and  came  back.  He  stood  in  the  doorway, 
holding  his  bathrobe  together  with  one  hand  and 
swinging  his  towel  with  the  other ;  and  chuckling. 

"You  Worm!"  he  observed.  "Why  Bolbo- 
ceeras  ?" 

The  Worm  looked  up  with  mild  eyes.  "Not  bol- 
boceeras,"  he  corrected.  "Bolfroweras.  As  in 
cow." 


20  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"But  why?" 

The  Worm  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
resumed  his  book. 

Peter  paid  little  heed  to  this  brief  conversation. 
And  when  he  and  Hy  went  out,  half  an  hour  later, 
he  gave  only  a  passing  glance  to  the  card  on  the 
door.  He  was  occupied  with  thoughts  of  a  slim  girl 
with  green  eyes  who  had  fascinated  and  angered 
him  in  a  most  confusing  way. 

The  card  read  as  follows : 

DO  NOT  FEED  OR  ANNOY ! 

BOLBOCERAS  AMERICANUS  MULS 
HABITAT  HERE! 


CHAFER  III 

JACOB    ZANIN 

THE  Crossroads  Theater  was  nothing  more 
than  an  old  store,  with  a  shallow  stage  built 
in  at  the  rear  and  a  rough  foyer  boarded  off  at  the 
front.  The  seats  were  rows  of  undertaker's  chairs, 
But  the  lighting  was  managed  with  some  skill ;  and 
the  scenery,  built  and  painted  in  the  neighborhood, 
bordered  on  a  Barker-Craig-Reinhardt  effective- 
ness. 

Peter  and  Hy  stood  for  a  little  time  in  the  foyer, 
watching  the  audience  come  in.  It  was  a  distinctly 
youthful  audience — the  girls  and  women  were  at' 
tractive,  most  of  them  Americans ;  the  men  running 
more  foreign,  with  a  good  many  Russian  Jews 
among  them.  They  all  appeared  to  be  great  friends. 
And  they  handled  one  another  a  good  deal.  Peter, 
self-conscious,  hunting  copy  as  always,  saw  one 
tired-looking  young  Jewish  painter  catch  the  hand 
of  a  pretty  girl — an  extraordinarily  pretty  girl, 

21 


22  THE    TRUFFLERS 

blonde,  of  a  slimly  rounded  figure — and  press  and 
caress  her  fingers  as  he  chatted  casually  with  a 
group. 

After  a  moment  the  girl  drew  her  hand  away 
gently,  half -apologetically,  while  a  faint  wave  of 
color  flowed  to  her  transparent  cheek. 

All  Peter's  blind  race  prejudice  flamed  into  a  lit- 
tle fire  of  rage.  Here  it  was — his  subject — the  rest- 
less American  girl  experimenting  with  life,  the 
selfish  bachelor  girl,  deep  in  the  tangles  of  Bohemia, 
surrounded  by  just  the  experimental  men  that  would 
be  drawn  to  the  district  by  such  as  she.  .  .  . 
So  Peter  read  it.  And  he  was  torn  by  confused 
clashing  emotions.  Then  he  heard  a  fresh  voice 
cry :  "Why,  hello,  Betty !"  Then  he  remembered — 
this  girl  was  the  Picabia  dancer — Betty  Deane — her 
friend !  There  was  color  in  his  own  face  now,  and 
his  pulse  was  leaping. 

"Come,"  he  said  shortly  to  Hy,  "let's  find  our 
seats." 

The  first  playlet  on  the  bill  was  Zanin's  Any 
Street. 

The  theme  was  the  grim  influence  of  street  life  on 
the  mind  of  a  child.  It  was  an  uncomfortable  little 
play.  All  curtains  were  drawn  back.  Subjects  were 
mentioned  that  should  never,  Peter  felt,  be  even 


JACOB    ZANIN  23 

hinted  at  in  the  presence  of  young  women.  Rough 
direct  words  were  hurled  at  that  audience. 

Peter,  blushing,  peered  about  him.  There  sat  the 
young  women  and  girls  by  the  dozen,  serene  of  face, 
frankly  interested. 

Poor  Hy,  overcome  by  his  tangled  self -conscious- 
ness, actually  lowered  his  head  and  pressed  his 
handkerchief  to  his  fiery  face,  murmuring:  "This  is 
no  place  for  a  minister's  assistant !"  And  he  added, 
in  Peter's  ear:  "Lord,  if  the  Walrus  could  just  see 
this — once!" 

Then  a  newsboy  came  running  on  the  stage — 
slim,  light  of  foot — dodged  cowering  in  a  saloon 
doorway,  and  swore  at  an  off-stage  policeman  from 
whose  clutches  he  had  escaped. 

There  was  a  swift  pattering  of  applause;  and  a 
whisper  ran  through  the  audience.  Peter  heard  one 
voice  say :  "There  she  is — that's  Sue !" 

He  sat  erect,  on  the  edge  of  his  chair.  Again  the 
hot  color  surged  into  his  face.  He  felt  it  there  and 
was  confused. 

It  was  his  girl  of  the  apple,  in  old  coat  and  knick- 
erbockers, torn  stockings,  torn  shirt  open  at  the 
neck,  a  ragged  felt  hat  over  her  short  hair. 

Peter  felt  his  resentment  fading.  He  knew  as  he 
watched  her  move  about  the  stage  that  she  had  the 


24          .         THE   TRUFFLERS 

curious  electric  quality  that  is  called  personality.  It 
was  in  her  face  and  the  poise  of  her  head,  in  the 
lines  of  her  body,  in  every  easy  movement.  She  had 
a  great  gift. 

After  this  play  the  two  went  outside  to  smoke, 
very  silent,  suppressed  even.  Neither  knew  what  to 
think  or  what  to  say. 

There  Zanin  found  them  (for  Peter  was,  after 
all,  a  bit  of  a  personage)  and  made  them  his  guests. 

Thus  it  was  that  Peter  found  himself  -behind  the 
scenes,  meeting  the  youthful,  preoccupied  members 
of  the  company  and  watching  with  half -suppressed 
eagerness  the  narrow  stairway  by  which  Sue  Wilde 
must  sooner  or  later  mount  from  the  region  of 
dressing-rooms  below. 

Finally,  just  before  the  curtain  was  rung  up  on 
the  second  play,  he  was  rewarded  by  the  appearance 
of  Betty  Deane,  followed  by  the  tam  o'shanter  and 
the  plaid  coat  of  his  apple  girl. 

He  wondered  if  her  heart  was  jumping  as  his 
was. 

Surely  the  electric  thrill  of  this  meeting,  here 
among  heaps  of  scenery  and  properties,  must  have 
touched  her,  too.  He  could  not  believe  that  it  began 
and  ended  with  himself.  There  was  magic  in  the 
occasion,  such  magic  as  an  individual  rarely  gener^ 


JACOB   ZANIN  25 

ates  alotte.  But  if  it  touched  her,  she  gave  no  out- 
ward sign.  To  Zanin's  casual,  "Oh,  you  know  each 
other,"  she  responded  with  a  quite  matter-of-fact 
smile  and  nod. 

They  went  out  into  the  audience,  and  up  an  aisle 
to  seats  in  the  rear  of  the  hall — Betty  first,  then  Sue 
and  Peter,  then  Hy. 

Peter  felt  the  thrill  again  in  walking  just  behind 
her,  aware  through  his  very  nerve-tips  of  her  grace 
and  charm  of  movement.  When  he  stood  aside  to 
let  her  pass  on  to  her  seat  her  sleeve  brushed  his 
arm;  and  the  arm,  his  body,  his  brain,  tingled  and 
flamed. 

Zanin  joined  them  after  the  last  play  and  led 
them  to  a  basement  restaurant  near  the  Square.  Hy 
paired  off  with  Betty  and  made  progress.  But  then, 
Betty  was  evidently  more  Hy's  sort  than  Sue  was. 

In  the  restaurant,  Peter,  silent,  gloomy,  watched 
his  chance  for  a  word  aside  with  Sue.  When  it 
came,  he  said :  "I'm  very  glad  you  told  me  to  come." 

"You  liked  it,  then?" 

"I  liked  you." 

This  appeared  to  silence  her. 

"You  have  distinction.  Your  performance  was 
really  interesting." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  that." 


26  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"In  some  ways  you  are  the  most  gifted  girl  I  have 
ever  seen.  Listen!  I  must  see  you  again." 

She  smiled. 

"Let's  have  a  bite  together  one  of  these  evenings 
— at  the  Parisian  or  Jim's.  I  want  to  talk  with 
you." 

"That  would  be  pleasant,"  said  she,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation. 

"To-morrow  evening,  perhaps  ?"  Peter  suggested. 

The  question  was  not  answered ;  for  in  some  way 
the  talk  became  general  just  then.  Later  Peter  was 
sure  that  Sue  herself  had  a  hand  in  making  it 
general. 

Zanin  turned  suddenly  to  Peter.  He  was  a  big 
young  man,  with  a  strong  if  peasant-like  face  and  a 
look  of  keenness  about  the  eyes.  There  was  exuber- 
ant force  in  the  man,  over  which  his  Village  manner 
of  sophisticated  casualness  toward  all  things  lay  like 
the  thinnest  of  veneers. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  Sue 
here?" 

Peter  repeated  his  impressions  with  enthusiasm. 

"We're  going  to  do  big  things  with  her,"  said 
Zanin.  "Big  things.  You  wait.  Any  Street  is 
just  a  beginning."  And  then  an  impetuous  eager- 
ness rushing  up  in  him,  his  topic  shifted  from  Sue 


JACOB   ZANIN  27 

to  himself.  With  a  turbulent,  passionate  egotism  he 
recounted  his  early  difficulties  in  America,  his  strug- 
gles with  the  language,  heart-breaking  summers  as 
a  book  agent,  newspaper  jobs  in  middle-western  cit- 
ies, theatrical  press  work  from  Coast  to  Coast,  his 
plunge  into  the  battle  for  a  higher  standard  of  the- 
atrical art  and  the  resulting  fight,  most  desperate  of 
his  life  thus  far,  to  attract  attention  to  the  Cross- 
roads Theater  and  widen  its  influence. 

Zanin  was  vehement  now.  Words  poured  in  a 
torrent  from  his  lips.  He  talked  straight  at  you, 
gesturing,  with  a  light  in  his  eye  and  veiled  power  in 
his  slightly  husky  voice.  Peter  felt  this  power,  and 
something  not  unlike  a  hatred  of  the  man  took  sud- 
den root  within  him. 

"You  will  think  me  foolish  to  give  my  strength 
to  this  struggle.  Like  you,  I  know  these  Americans. 
You  can  tell  me  nothing  about  them.  Oh,  I  have 
seen  them,  lived  with  them — in  the  city,  in  the  small 
village,  on  the  farm.  I  know  that  they  are  ignorant 
of  Art,  that  they  do  not  care."  He  snapped  his  big 
fingers.  "Vaudeville,  baseball,  the  girl  show,  the 
comic  supplement,  the  moving  picture — that  is  what 
they  like !  Yet  year  after  year,  I  go  on  fighting  for 
the  barest  recognition.  They  do  not  understand. 
They  do  not  care.  They  believe  in  money,  com- 


28  THE   TRUFFLERS 

fort,  conformity — above  all  conformity.  They 
are  fools.  But  I  know  them,  I  tell  you!  And  I 
know  that  they  will  listen  to  me  yet !  I  have  shown 
them  that  I  can  fight  for  my  ideals.  Before  we  are 
through  I  shall  show  them  that  I  can  beat  them  at 
their  own  game.  They  shall  see  that  I  mean  busi- 
ness. I  shall  show  them  their  God  Success  in  his 
full  majesty.  .  .  .  And  publicity?  They  are 
children.  When  I  have  finished  they — the  best  of 
them — will  come  to  me  for  kindergarten  lessons  in 
publicity.  I'm  hoping  to  talk  with  you  about  it, 
Mann.  I  can  interest  you.  I  wouldn't  bring  it  to 
you  unless  I  knew  I  could  interest  you." 

He  turned  toward  Sue.  "And  this  girl  shall  help 
me.  She  has  the  talent,  the  courage,  the  breeding. 
She  will  surprise  the  best  of  them.  They  will  find 
her  pure  gold." 

Hushed  with  his  own  enthusiasm,  he  dropped  his 
hand  over  one  of  Sue's;  took  hers  up  in  both  of  his 
and  moved  her  slender  fingers  about  as  he  might 
have  played  absently  with  a  handkerchief  or  a  cur- 
tain string. 

Hy,  across  the  table,  took  this  in;  and  noted  too 
the  swift  hot  expression  that  flitted  across  Peter's 
face  and  the  sudden  set  to  his  mouth. 


JACOB   ZANIN  29 

Sue,  after  a  moment,  quietly  withdrew  her  hand. 
But  she  did  not  flush,  as  Betty  had  flushed  in  some- 
what similar  circumstances  a  few  hours  earlier. 

Peter  laid  his  hands  on  the  table ;  pushed  back  his 
chair ;  and,  lips  compressed,  got  up. 

"Oh,"  cried  Zanin— "not  going?" 

"I  must,"  Peter  replied,  slowly,  coldly.  "I  have 
work  to  do.  It  has  been  very  pleasant.  Good 
night." 

And  out  he  went. 

Hy,  after  some  hesitation,  followed. 

Peter  did  not  speak  until  they  were  nearly  across 
the  Square.  Then  he  remembered — 

"The  Walrus  asked  you  where  she  was,  did  he  ?" 

"He  sure  did." 

"Worried  about  her,  I  suppose !" 

"He's  worried,  all  right." 

"Humph!"  said  Peter. 

He  said  nothing  more.  At  the  rooms,  he  partly 
undressed  in  silence.  Now  and  again  his  long  face 
worked  in  mute  expression  of  conflicting  emotions 
within.  Suddenly  he  stopped  undressing  and  went 
into  the  studio  (he  slept  in  there,  on  the  couch)  and 
sat  by  the  window,  peering  out  at  the  lights  of  the 
Square. 


30  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Hy  watched  him  curiously ;  then  called  out  a  good 
night,  turned  off  the  gas  and  tumbled  into  bed.  His 
final  remark,  the  cheery  observation — "I'll  tell  you 
this  much,  my  son.  Friend  Betty  is  some  pippin !" 
drew  forth  no  response. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   LITTLE  JOURNEY   IN    PARANOIA 

HALF  an  hour  later  Peter  tiptoed  over  and 
closed  the  door.  Then  he  sat  down  at  his 
typewriter,  removed  the  paper  he  had  left  in  it,  put 
in  a  new  sheet  and  struck  off  a  word. 

He  sat  still,  then,  in  a  sweat.  The  noise  of  the 
keys  fell  on  his  tense  ears  like  the  crackling  thunder 
of  a  machine  gun. 

He  took  the  paper  out  and  tore  it  into  minute 
pieces. 

He  got  another  sheet,  sat  down  at  the  desk  and 
wrote  a  few  hurried  sentences  in  longhand. 

He  sealed  it  in  an  envelope,  glancing  nervously 
about  the  room;  addressed  it;  and  found  a  stamp 
in  the  desk. 

Then  he  tiptoed  down  the  room,  softly  opened  the 
door  and  listened. 

Hy  was  snoring. 

He  stole  into  the  bedroom,  found  his  clothes  in 
the  dark  and  deliberately  dressed,  clear  to  overcoat 

31 


32  THE   TRUFFLERS 

and  hat.  He  slipped  out  into  the  corridor,  rang  for 
the  elevator  and  went  out  across  the  Square  to  the 
mail  box.  There  was  a  box  in  the  hall  down-stairs ; 
but  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  post  that  letter 
before  the  eyes  of  John,  the  night  man. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless,  one  hand 
gripping  the  box,  the  other  holding  the  letter  in  air 
— a  statue  of  a  man. 

Then  he  saw  a  sauntering  policeman,  shivered, 
dropped  the  letter  in  and  almost  ran  home. 

Peter  had  done  the  one  thing  that  he  himself, 
twelve  hours  earlier,  would  have  regarded  as  ut- 
terly impossible. 

He  had  sent  an  anonymous  letter. 

It  was  addressed  to  the  Reverend  Hubbell  Hark- 
ness  Wilde,  Scripture  House,  New  York.  It  con- 
veyed to  that  vigorous  if  pietistic  gentleman  the  in- 
formation that  he  would  find  his  daughter,  on  the 
following  evening,  Saturday,  performing  on  the 
stage  of  the  Crossroads  Theater,  Tenth  Street,  near 
Fourth ;  with  the  added  hint  that  it  might  not,  even 
yet,  be  too  late  to  save  her. 

And  Peter,  all  in  a  tremor  now,  knew  that  he 
meant  to  be  at  the  Crossroads  Theater  himself  to 
see  this  little  drama  of  surprises  come  off. 

The  fact  developed  when  Hy  came  back  from 


A   LITTLE   JOURNEY    IN    PARANOIA     33 

the  office  on  Saturday  that  he  was  meditating  a  re- 
turn engagement  with  his  new  friend  Betty.  "The 
subject  was  mentioned,"  he  explained,  rather  self- 
consciously, to  Peter. 

The  Worm  came  in  then  and  heard  Hy  speak  of 
Any  Street. 

"Oh,"  he  observed,  "that  piece  of  Zanin's!  I've 
meant  to  see  it.  You  fellows  going  to-night?  I'll 
join  you." 

So  the  three  Seventh-Story  Men  ate  at  the  Pa- 
.risian  and  set  forth  for  their  little  adventure ;  Peter 
and  Hy  each  with  his  own  set  of  motives  locked  up 
in  his  breast,  the  Worm  with  no  motives  in  par- 
ticular. 

Peter  smoked  a  cigar;  the  Worm  his  pipe;  and 
Hy,  as  always,  a  cigarette.  All  carried  sticks. 

Peter  walked  in  the  middle;  his  face  rather 
drawn;  peering  out  ahead. 

Hy  swung  his  stick;  joked  about  this  and  that; 
offered  an  experimentally  humorous  eye  to  every 
young  woman  that  passed. 

The  Worm  wore  the  old  gray  suit  that  he  could 
not  remember  to  keep  pressed,  soft  black  hat,  flow- 
ing tie,  no  overcoat.  A  side  pocket  bulged  with  a 
paper-covered  book  in  the  Russian  tongue.  He  had 
an  odd  way  of  walking,  the  Worm,  throwing  his 


34  THE    TRUFFLERS 

right  leg  out  and  around  and  toeing  in  with  his  right 
foot. 

As  they  neared  the  little  theater,  Peter's  pulse  beat 
a  tattoo  against  his  temples.  What  if  old  Wilde 
hadn't  received  the  letter!  If  he  had,  would  he 
come!  If  he  came,  what  would  happen? 

He  came. 

Peter  and  the  Worm  were  standing  near  the  inner 
entrance,  waiting  for  Hy,  who,  cigarette  drooping 
from  his  nether  lip,  stood  in  the  line  at  the  ticket 
window. 

Suddenly  a  man  appeared — a  stranger,  from  the 
casually  curious  glances  he  drew — elbowing  in 
through  the  group  in  the  outer  doorway  and  made 
straight  for  the  young  poet  who  was  taking  tickets. 

Peter  did  not  see  him  at  first.  Then  the  Worm 
nudged  his  elbow  and  whispered — "Good  God,  it's 
the  Walrus!" 

Peter  wheeled  about.  He  had  met  the  man  only 
once  or  twice,  a  year  back ;  now  he  took  him  in — a 
big  man,  heavy  in  the  shoulders  and  neck,  past 
middle  age,  with  a  wide  thin  orator's  mouth  sur- 
rounded by  deep  lines.  He  had  a  big  hooked  nose 
(a  strong  nose!)  and  striking  vivid  eyes  of  a  pale 
green  color.  They  struck  you,  those  eyes,  with 
their  light  hard  surface.  There  were  strips  of  whis- 


kers  on  each  cheek,  narrow  and  close-clipped,  tinged 
with  gray.  His  clothes,  overcoat  and  hat  were 
black;  his  collar  a  low  turnover;  his  tie  a  loosely 
knotted  white  bow. 

He  made  an  oddly  dramatic  figure  in  that  easy, 
merry  Bohemian  setting ;  a  specter  from  an  old  for- 
gotten world  of  Puritanism. 

The  intruder  addressed  the  young  poet  at  the  door 
in  a  low  but  determined  voice. 

"I  wish  to  see  Miss  Susan  Wilde." 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't  now,  sir.  She  will  be  in 
costume  by  this  time." 

"In  costume,  eh?"  Doctor  Wilde  was  frowning. 
And  the  poet  eyed  him  with  cool  suspicion. 

"Yes,  she  is  in  the  first  play." 

Still  the  big  man  frowned  and  compressed  that 
wide  mobile  mouth.  Peter,  all  alert,  sniffing  out 
the  copy  trail,  noted  that  he  was  nervously  clasping 
his  hands. 

Now  Doctor  Wilde  spoke,  with  a  sudden  ring  in 
his  voice  that  gave  a  fleeting  hint  of  inner  sup- 
pressions. "Will  you  kindly  send  word  to  Miss 
Wilde  that  her  father  is  here  and  must  see  her  at 
once  ?" 

The  poet,  surprised,  sent  the  message. 

Peter  heard  a  door  open,  down  by  the  stage.   He 


36  THE   TRUFFLERS 

pressed  forward,  peering  eagerly.  A  ripple  of  curi- 
osity and  friendly  interest  ran  through  that  part  of 
the  audience  that  was  already  seated.  A  young 
man  called,  "What's  your  hurry,  Sue?"  and  there 
was  laughter. 

Then  he  saw  her,  coming  lightly,  swiftly  up  the 
side  aisle;  in  the  boy  costume — the  knickerbockers, 
the  torn  stockings,  the  old  coat  and  ragged  hat,  the 
torn  shirt,  open  at  the  neck.  She  seemed  hardly  to 
hear  the  noise.  Her  lips  were  compressed,  and  Peter 
suddenly  saw  that  she  in  her  fresh  young  way  looked 
not  unlike  the  big  man  at  the  door,  the  nervously 
intent  man  who  stood  waiting  for  her  with  a  scowl 
that  wavered  into  an  expression  of  utter  unbelief  as 
his  eyes  took  in  her  costume. 

Hy  came  up  just  then  with  the  tickets,  and  Peter 
hurried  in  after  Doctor  Wilde ;  then  let  Hy  and  the 
Worm  move  on  without  him  to  their  seats,  lingerng 
shamelessly.  His  little  drama  was  on.  He  had  an- 
nounced that  he  would  vivisect  this  girl ! 

He  studied  her.  But  she  saw  nothing  but  the  big 
gray  man  there  with  the  deeply  lined  face  and  the 
pale  eyes — her  father  I  Peter  noted  now  that  she 
had  her  make-up  on;  an  odd  effect  around  those 
deep  blazing  eyes. 

Then  the  two  were  talking — low,  tense.  Some  late 


A   LITTLE   JOURNEY    IN    PARANOIA     37, 

comers  crowded  in,  chatting  and  laughing.  Peter 
edged  closer. 

"But  you  shouldn't  have  come  here  like  this,"  he 
heard  her  saying.  "It  Isn't  fair !" 

"I  am  not  here  to  argue.  Once  more,  will  you 
put  on  your  proper  clothes  and  come  home  with 
me?" 

"No,  I  will  not." 

"You  have  no  shame  then — appearing  like  this?" 

"No— none." 

"And  the  publicity  means  nothing  to  you  ?" 

"You  are  causing  it  by  coming  here." 

"It  is  nothing  to  you  that  your  actions  are  a  pub- 
lic scandal?"  With  which  he  handed  her  a  folded 
paper. 

She  did  not  look  at  it ;  crumpled  it  in  her  hand. 

"You  feel,  then,  no  concern  for  the  position  you 
put  me  in?" 

Doctor  Wilde  was  raising  his  voice. 

The  girl  broke  out  with — "Listen,  father!  I 
came  out  here  to  meet  you  and  stop  this  thing,  set- 
tle it  once  and  for  all.  It  is  the  best  way.  I  will 
not  go  with  you.  I  have  my  own  life  to  live.  You 
must  not  try  to  speak  to  me  again !" 

She  turned  away,  her  eyes  darkly  alight  in  her 
painted  face,  her  slim  body  quivering. 


38  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Sue!    Wait!" 

Wilde's  voice  had  been  trembling  with  anger; 
now,  Peter  thought,  it  was  suddenly  near  to  break- 
ing. He  reached  out  one  uncertain  hand.  And  a 
wave  of  sympathy  for  the  man  flooded  Peter's 
thoughts.  "This  is  where  their  'freedom/  their 
'self-expression'  leads  them,"  he  thought  bitterly. 
Egotism!  Selfishness!  Spiritual  anarchy!  It  was 
all  summed  up,  that  revolt,  in  the  girl's  outrageous 
costume  as  she  stood  there  before  that  older  man,  a 
minister,  her  own  father! 

She  caught  the  new  note  in  her  father's  voice, 
hesitated  the  merest  instant,  but  then  went  straight 
down  the  aisle,  lips  tight,  eyes  aflame,  seeing  and 
hearing  nothing. 

The  stage  door  opened.  She  ran  up  the  steps, 
and  Peter  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hulking  Zanin 
reaching  out  with  a  familiar  hand  to  take  her  arm 
and  draw  her  within.  .  .  .  He  turned  back  in 
time  to  see  Doctor  Wilde,  beaten,  walking  rapidly 
out  to  the  street,  and  the  poet  at  the  door  looking 
after  him  with  an  expression  of  sheer  uncompre- 
hending irritation  on  his  keen  young  face.  "There 
you  have  it  again !"  thought  Peter.  "There  you  have 
the  bachelor  girl — and  her  friends!" 


A   LITTLE   JOURNEY    IN    PARANOIA     39 

While  he  was  thus  indulging  his  emotions,  the 
curtain  went  up  on  Zanin's  little  play. 

He  stood  there  near  the  door,  trying  to  listen. 
He  was  too  excited  to  sit  down.  Turbulent  emotions 
were  rioting  within  him,  making  consecutive  thought 
impossible.  He  caught  bits  of  Zanin's  rough  dia- 
logue. He  saw  Sue  make  her  entrance,  heard  the 
shout  of  delighted  approval  that  greeted  her,  the  pro- 
longed applause,  the  cries  of  "Bully  for  you,  Sue !" 
.  .  .  "You're  all  right,  Sue!" 

Then  Peter  plunged  out  the  door  and  walked 
feverishly  about  the  Village  streets.  He  stopped  at 
a  saloon  and  had  a  drink. 

But  the  Crossroads  Theater  fascinated  him.  He 
drifted  back  there  and  looked  in.  The  first  play 
was  over.  Hy  was  in  a  dim  corner  of  the  lobby, 
talking  confidentially  with  Betty  Deane. 

Then  Sue  came  out  with  the  Worm,  of  all  persons, 
at  her  elbow.  So  he  had  managed  to  meet  her,  too  ? 
She  wore  her  street  dress  and  looked  amazingly 
calm. 

Peter  dodged  around  the  corner.  "The  way  to 
get  on  with  women,"  he  reflected  savagely,  "is  to 
have  no  feelings,  no  capacity  for  emotion,  be  per- 
fectly cold  blooded  I" 


40  THE    TRUFFLERS 

He  walked  up  to  Fourteenth  Street  and  dropped 
aimlessly  into  a  moving-picture  show. 

Toward  eleven  he  went  back  to  Tenth  Street.  He 
even  ran  a  little,  breathlessly,  for  fear  he  might  be 
too  late.  Too  late  for  what,  he  did  not  know. 

But  he  was  not.  Glancing  in  at  the  door,  he  saw 
Sue,  with  Betty,  Hy,  the  Worm,  Zanin  and  a  few 
others. 

Hurriedly,  on  an  impulse,  he  found  an  envelope 
in  his  pocket,  tore  off  the  back,  and  scribbled,  in 
pencil — 

"May  I  walk  back  with  you?  I  want  very  much 
to  talk  with  you.  If  you  could  slip  away  from  these 
people." 

He  went  in  then,  grave  and  dignified,  bowing 
rather  stiffly.  Sue  appeared  not  to  see  him. 

He  moved  to  her  side  and  spoke  low.  She  did  not 
reply. 

The  blood  came  rushing  to  Peter's  face.  Anger 
stirred.  He  slipped  the  folded  envelope  into  her 
hand.  It  was  some  satisfaction  that  she  had  either 
to  take  it  or  let  them  all  see  it  drop.  She  took  it; 
but  still  ignored  him.  Her  intent  to  snub  him  was 
clear  now,  even  to  the  bewildered  Peter. 

He  mumbled  something,  he  did  not  know  what, 


A   LITTLE   JOURNEY    IN    PARANOIA     41 

and  rushed  away  as  erratically  as  he  had  come. 
What  had  he  wanted  to  say  to  her,  anyway ! 

At  the  corner  he  turned  and  came  part  way  back, 
slowly  and  uncertainly.  But  what  he  saw  checked 
him.  The  Worm  was  talking  apart  with  her  now. 
And  she  was  looking  up  into  his  face  with  an  ex- 
pression of  pleased  interest,  frankly  smiling.  While 
Peter  watched,  the  two  moved  off  along  the  street. 

Peter  walked  the  streets,  in  a  fever  of  spirit.  One 
o'clock  found  him  out  on  the  high  curve  of  the 
Williamsburg  bridge  where  he  could  lean  on  the 
railing  and  look  down  on  the  river  with  its  colored 
splashes  of  light  or  up  and  across  at  the  myriad 
twinkling  towers  of  the  great  city. 

"I'll  use  her!"  he  muttered.  "She  is  fair  game, 
I  tell  you !  She  will  find  yet  that  she  must  listen  to 
me!"  And  turning  about  on  the  deserted  bridge, 
Peter  clenched  his  fist  and  shook  it  at  the  great  still 
city  on  the  island. 

"You  will  all  listen  to  me  yet!"  he  cried  aloud. 
"Yes,  you  will — you'll  listen!" 


CHAPTER  V 

PETER    TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS 

HE  walked  rapidly  back  to  the  rooms.  For  his 
bachelor  girl  play  was  swiftly,  like  magic, 
working  itself  out  all  new  in  his  mind,  actually  tak- 
ing form  from  moment  to  moment,  arranging  and 
rearranging  itself  nearer  and  nearer  to  a  complete 
dramatic  story.  The  big  scene  was  fairly  tumbling 
into  form.  He  saw  it  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  being 
enacted  before  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Father  and  daugh- 
ter— the  two  generations ;  the  solid  Old,  the  experi- 
mental selfish  New. 

He  could  see  that  typical  bachelor  girl,  too.  If 
she  looked  like  Sue  Wilde  that  didn't  matter.  He 
would  teach  her  a  lesson  she  would  never  forget — > 
this  "modern"  girl  who  forgets  all  her  parents  have 
done  in  giving  and  developing  her  life  and  thinks 
only  of  her  own  selfish  freedom.  It  should  be  like 
an  outcry  from  the  old  hearthstone. 

And  he  saw  the  picture  as  only  a  nerve-racked, 
soul-weary  bachelor  can  see  it.  J.  here  were  pleas- 

42 


PETER   TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS     43 

ant  lawns  in  Peter's  ideal  home  and  crackling  fire- 
places and  merry  children  and  smiling  perfect  par- 
ents— no  problems,  excepting  that  one  of  the  unfilial 
child. 

Boys  had  to  strike  out,  of  course.  But  the  girl 
should  either  marry  or  stay  at  home.  He  was  cer- 
tain about  this. 

On  those  who  did  neither — on  the  bachelor  girls, 
with  their  "freedom,"  their  "truth,"  their  cigarettes, 
their  repudiation  of  all  responsibility — on  these  he 
would  pour  the  scorn  of  his  genius.  Sue  Wilde, 
who  so  plainly  thought  him  uninteresting,  should  be 
his  target. 

He  would  write  straight  at  her,  every  minute,  and 
a  world  should  hear  him ! 

In  the  dark  corridor,  on  the  apartment  door,  a  dim 
square  of  white  caught  his  eye — the  Worm's  little 
placard.  An  inner  voice  whispered  to  light  a  match 
and  read  it  again.  He  did  so.  For  he  was  all  inner 
voices  now. 

There  it  was : 

DO   NOT  FEED  OR  ANNOY 

BOLBOCERAS  AMERICANUS  MULS 
HABITAT  HERE! 

He  studied  it  while  his  match  burned  out.     He 


44  THE   TRUFFLERS 

knit  his  brows,  puzzled,  groping  after  blind  thoughts, 
little  moles  of  thoughts  deep  in  dark  burrows. 

He  let  himself  in.    The  others  were  asleep. 

The  Worm,  in  his  odd  humors,  never  lacked  point 
or  meaning.  The  placard  meant  something,  of 
course  .  .  .  something  that  Peter  could  use.  .  .  . 

The  Worm  had  been  reading — that  rather  fat 
book  lying  even  now  on  the  arm  of  the  Morris 
chair.  It  was  Fabre,  on  Insect  Life. 

He  snatched  it  up  and  turned  the  pages.  He 
sought  the  index  for  that  word.  There  it  was — 
Bolboceras,  page  225.  Back  then  to  page  225 ! 

He  read: 

"...  a  pretty  little  black  beetle,  with  a  pale, 
velvety  abdomen  ...  Its  official  title  is  Bolbo- 
ceras Gallicus  Muls" 

He  looked  up,  in  perplexity.  This  was  hardly 
self-explanatory.  He  read  on.  The  bolboceras,  it 
began  to  appear,  was  a  hunter  of  truffles.  Truffles 
it  would,  must  have.  It  would  eat  no  common  food 
but  wandered  about  sniffing  out  its  vegetable  prey 
in  the  sandy  soil  and  digging  for  each  separate  mor- 
sel, then  moving  on  in  its  quest.  It  made  no  per- 
manent home  for  itself. 


PETER   TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS     45 

Peter  raised  his  eyes  and  stared  at  the  bookcase 
in  the  corner.  Very  slowly  a  light  crept  into  his 
eyes,  an  excited  smile  came  to  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  There  was  matter  here!  And  Peter,  like 
Homer,  felt  no  hesitation  about  taking  his  own 
where  he  found  it. 

He  read  on,  a  description  of  the  burrows  as  ex- 
plored by  the  hand  of  the  scientist : 

"Often  the  insect  will  be  found  at  the  bottom  of 
its  burrow;  sometimes  a  male,  sometimes  a  fe- 
male, but  always  alone.  The  two  sexes  work  apart 
without  collaboration.  This  is  no  family  mansion 
for  the  rearing  of  offspring;  it  is  a  temporary 
dwelling,  made  by  each  insect  for  its  own  benefit." 

Peter  laid  the  book  down  almost  reverently  and 
stood  gazing  out  the  window  at  the  Square.  He 
quite  forgot  to  consider  what  the  Worm  had  been 
thinking  of  when  he  printed  out  the  little  placard 
and  tacked  it  on  the  door.  He  could  see  it  only  as 
a  perfect  characterization  of  the  bachelor  girls. 
Every  one  of  those  girls  and  women  was  a  Bol- 
boceras,  a  confirmed  seeker  of  pleasures  and  deli- 
cacies in  the  sober  game  of  life,  utterly  self-indul- 
gent, going  it  alone — a  truffle  hunter. 

He  would  call  his  play,  The  Bolboceras. 


46  THE   TRUFFLERS 

But  no.  "Buyers  from  Shreveport  would  fumble 
it,"  he  thought,  shrewdly  practical.  "You've  got 
to  use  words  of  one  syllable  on  Broadway." 

He  paced  the  room — back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth.  The  Truffle-Hunter,  perhaps. 

Pretty  good,  that! 

But  no — wait !  He  stood  motionless  in  the  middle 
of  the  long  room,  eyes  staring,  the  muscles  of  his 
face  strained  out  of  shape,  hands  clenched  tightly. 
.He  was  about  to  create  a  new  thing. 

"The  Truffler!" 

The  words  burst  from  his  lips;  so  loud  that  he 
tiptoed  to  the  door  and  listened. 

"The  Truffler,"  he  repeated.  "The  Trifler — no 
The  Truffler." 

He  was  riding  high,  far  above  all  worldly  irrita- 
tions, tolerant  even  toward  the  little  person,  Sue 
Wilde,  who  had  momentarily  annoyed  him. 

"I  had  to  be  stirred,"  he  thought,  "that  was  all. 
Something  had  to  happen  to  rouse  me  and  set  my 
creative  self  working.  New  people  had  to  come  into 
my  life  to  freshen  me.  It  did  happen ;  they  did  come, 
and  now  I  am  myself  again.  I  shall  not  have  time 
for  them  now,  these  selfish  bachelor  women  and 
their  self-styled  Jew  geniuses.  But  still  I  am  grate- 
ful to  them  all.  They  have  helped  me." 


PETER    TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS      47 

He  dropped  into  the  chair  by  the  desk,  pulled  out 
his  manuscript  from  a  drawer  and  fell  to  work.  It 
was  five  in  the  morning  before  he  crept  into  bed. 

Four  days  later,  his  eyes  sunken  perceptibly,  face 
drawn,  color  off,  Peter  sat  for  two  hours  within  a 
cramped  disorderly  office,  reading  aloud  to  a  Broad- 
way theatrical  manager  who  wore  his  hat  tipped 
down  over  his  eyes,  kept  his  feet  on  the  mahogany 
desk,  smoked  panatelas  end  on  end  and  who,  like 
Peter,  was  deeply  conservative  where  women  were 
concerned. 

At  five-thirty  on  this  same  afternoon,  Peter,  tri- 
umphant, acting  on  a  wholly  unconsidered  impulse, 
rushed  around  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Forty- 
second  Street  and  into  the  telephone  room  of  a  glit- 
tering hotel.  He  found  Betty  Deane's  name  in  the 
telephone  book,  and  called  up  the  apartment. 

A  feminine  voice  sounded  in  his  ear.  He  thought 
it  was  Sue  Wilde. 

It  was  Sue  Wilde.    ^ 

He  asked  if  she  could  not  dine  with  him. 

There  was  a  long  silence  at  the  other  end  of  the 
wire. 

"Are  you  there?"  he  called  anxiously.  "Hello! 
Hello!" 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  came  the  voice.     "You  rather 


48  THE   TRUFFLERS 

surprised  me,  Mr.  Mann.     I  have  an  engagement 
for  this  evening." 

"Oh,  then  I  can't  see  you !" 

"I  have  an  engagement." 

He  tried  desperately  to  think  up  conversation; 
but  failed. 

"Well,"  he  said— "good-by." 

"Good-by." 

That  was  all.  Peter  ate  alone,  still  overstrung 
but  gloomy  now,  in  the  glittering  hotel. 
'  The  dinner,  however,  was  both  well-cooked  and 
hot.  It  tended  to  soothe  and  soften  him.  Finally, 
expansive  again,  he  leaned  back,  fingered  his  coffee 
cup,  smoked  a  twenty-cent  cigar  and  observed  the 
life  about  him. 

There  were  many  large  dressy  women,  escorted 
by  sharp-looking  men  of  two  races.  There  were 
also  small  dressy  women,  some  mere  girls  and  pretty, 
but  nearly  all  wearing  make-up  on  cheeks  and  lips 
and  quite  all  with  extreme,  sophistication  in  their 
eyes.  There  was  shining  silver  and  much  white 
linen.  Chafing  dishes  blazed.  French  and  Austrian 
waiters  moved  swiftly  about  under  the  commanding 
eye  of  a  stern  captain.  Uniformed  but  pocketless 
hat  boys  slipped  in  and  out,  pouncing  on  every  loose 


PETER    TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS      49 

article  of  apparel.  ...  It  was  a  gay  scene;  and 
Peter  found  himself  in  it,  of  it,  for  it.  With  rising 
exultation  in  his  heart  he  reflected  that  he  was  back 
on  Broadway,  where  (after  all)  he  belonged. 

His  manager  of  the  afternoon  came  in  now,  who 
believed,  with  Peter,  that  woman's  place  was  the 
home.  He  was  in  evening  dress — a  fat  man.  At 
his  side  tripped  a  very  young-appearing  girl  indeed 
— the  youngest  and  prettiest  in  the  room,  but  with 
the  make-up  and  sophistication  of  the  others.  Men 
(and  women)  stared  at  them  as  they  passed.  There 
was  whispering;  for  this  was  the  successful  Max 
Neuerman,  and  the  girl  was  the  lucky  Eileen 
O'Rourke. 

Neuerman  sighted  Peter,  greeted  him  boisterously, 
himself  drew  up  an  unoccupied  chair.  Peter  was 
made  acquainted  with  Miss  O'Rourke.  "This  is  the 
man,  Eileen,"  said  Neuerman,  breathing  confi- 
dences. "Wrote  The  Truffler.  Big  thing!  Abso- 
lutely a  new  note  on  Broadway!  Eric  here  has 
caught  the  new  bachelor  woman,  shown  her  up  and 
put  a  tag  on  her.  After  this  she'll  be  called  a  truffler 
everywhere.  ...  By  the  way,  Eric,  I  sent  the 
contract  down  to  you  to-night  by  messenger.  And 
the  check." 


50  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Miss  Eileen  O'Rourke  smiled  indulgently  and  a 
thought  absently.  While  Peter  lighted,  thanks  to 
Neuerman,  a  thirty-cent  cigar  and  impulsively  told 
Miss  O'Rourke  (who  continued  to  smile  indulgently 
and  absently)  just  how  he  had  come  to  hit  on  that 
remarkable  tag. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  he  left  and 
walked,  very  erect,  from  the  restaurant,  conscious 
of  a  hundred  eyes  on  his  back.  He  gave  the  hat  boy 
a  quarter. 

Out  on  Forty-second  Street  he  paused  to  clear  his 
exuberant  but  confused  mind.  He  couldn't  go  back 
to  the  rooms;  not  as  he  felt  now.  Cabarets  bored 
him.  It  was  too  early  for  dancing.  Irresolute,  he 
strolled  over  toward  Fifth  Avenue,  crossed  it, 
turned  south.  A  north-bound  automobile  bus 
stopped  just  ahead  of  him.  He  glanced  up  at  the 
roof.  There  appeared  to  be  a  vacant  seat  or  two. 
In  front  was  the  illuminated  sign  that  meant  River- 
side Drive.  It  was  warm  for  February. 

He  decided  to  take  the  ride. 

Just  in  front  of  him,  however,  also  moving  toward 
the  bus,  was  a  young  couple.  There  was  something 
familiar  about  them.  The  girl — he  could  see  by  a 
corner  light — was  wearing  a  boyish  coat,  a  plaid 
coat.  Also  she  wore  a  tam  o'shanter.  She  partly 


PETER    TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS      51 

turned  her  head  .  .  .  his  pulse  started  racing,  and 
he  felt  the  color  rushing  into  his  face.  It  was  Sue 
Wilde,  no  other! 

But  the  man  ?  No  overcoat.  That  soft  black  hat ! 
A  glimpse  of  a  flowing  tie  of  black  silk!  The  odd 
trick  of  throwing  his  right  leg  out  and  around  as 
he  walked  and  toeing  in  with  the  right  foot ! 

It  was  the  Worm. 

Peter  turned  sharply  away,  crossed  the  street  and 
caught  a  south-bound  bus.  Wavering  between  irri- 
tation, elation  and  chagrin,  he  walked  in  and  out 
among  the  twisted  old  streets  of  Greenwich  Village. 
Four  distinct  times — and  for  no  clear  reason — he 
passed  the  dingy  apartment  building  where  Sue  and 
Betty  lived. 

Later  he  found  himself  standing  motionless  on  a 
curb  by  a  battered  lamp-post,  peering  through  his 
large  horn-rimmed  eye-glasses  at  a  bill-board  across 
the  street  on  which  his  name  did  not  appear.  He 
studied  the  twenty-four-sheet  poster  of  a  cut  plug 
tobacco  that  now  occupied  the  space.  There  was 
light  enough  in  the  street  to  read  it  by. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  looked  to  the  right.  Then 
he  looked  to  the  left.  Fumbling  for  a  pencil,  he 
moved  swiftly  and  resolutely  across  the  street.  Very 
small,  down  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  tobacco 


52  THE    TRUFFLERS 

advertisement,  he  wrote  his  name — his  pen  name — 
"Eric  Mann." 

Then,  more  nearly  at  peace  with  himself,  he  went 
to  the  moving  pictures. 

Entering  the  rooms  later,  he  found  the  Worm 
settled,  in  pajamas  as  usual,  with  a  book  in  the 
Morris  chair.  He  also  found  a  big  envelope  from 
Neuerman  with  the  contract  in  it  and  a  check  for 
a  thousand  dollars,  advanced  against  royalties. 

It  was  a  brown  check.  He  fingered  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, while  his  spirits  recorded  their  highest  mark 
for  the  day.  Then,  outwardly  calm,  he  put  it  in  an 
inside  coat  pocket  and  with  a  fine  air  of  carelessness 
tossed  the  contract  to  the  desk. 

The  Worm  put  down  his  book  and  studied  Peter 
rather  thoughtfully. 

"Pete,"  he  finally  said,  "I've  got  a  message  for 
you,  a'nd  I've  been  sitting  here  debating  whether  to 
deliver  it  or  not." 

"Let's  have  it !"  replied  the  Eric  Mann  shortly. 

The  Worm  produced  a  folded  envelope  from  the 
pocket  of  his  pajamas  and  handed  it  over.  "I 
haven't  been  told  what's  in  it,"  he  said. 

Peter,  with  a  tremor,  unfolded  the  envelope  and 
peered  inside.  There  were  two  enclosures — one 
plainly  his  scribbled  note  to  Sue;  the  other  (he  had 


PETER   TREADS    THE    HEIGHTS      53 

to  draw  it  partly  out  and  examine  it) — yes — no — 
yes,  his  anonymous  letter,  much  crumpled. 

Deliberately,  rather  white  about  the  mouth, 
Peter  moved  to  the  fireplace,  touched  a  match  to 
the  papers  and  watched  them  burn.  That  done,  he 
turned  and  queried: 

"Well?    That  all?" 

The  Worm  shook  his  head.    "Not  quite  all,  Pete." 

Words  suddenly  came  from  Peter.  "What  do  I 
care  for  that  girl!  A  creative  artist  has  his  reac- 
tions, of  course.  He  even  does  foolish  things.  Look 
at  Wagner,  Burns,  Cellini,  Michael  Angelo — look 
at  the  things  they  used  to  do !  .  .  ." 

The  words  stopped. 

"Her  message  is,"  continued  the  Worm,  "the  sug- 
gestion that  next  time  you  write  one  of  them  with 
your  left  hand." 

Peter  thought  this  over.  The  check  glowed  next 
to  his  heart.  It  thrilled  him.  "You  tell  your  friend 
Sue  Wilde,"  he  replied  then,  with  dignity,  "that  my 
message  to  her— and  to  you — will  be  delivered  next 
September  across  the  footlights  of  the  Astoria 
Theater."  And  he  strode  into  the  bedroom. 

The  Worm  looked  after  him  with  quizzical  eyes, 
smiled  a  little  and  resumed  his  book. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   WORM    POURS   OIL   ON   A    FIRE 

PETER  came  stealthily  into  the  rooms  on  the 
seventh  floor  of  the  old  bachelor  apartment 
building  in  Washington  Square.  His  right  hand, 
deep  in  a  pocket  of  his  spring  overcoat,  clutched  a 
thin,  very  new  book  bound  in  pasteboard.  It  was 
late  on  a  Friday  afternoon,  near  the  lamb-like  close 
of  March. 

The  rooms  were  empty.  Which  fact  brought  re- 
lief to  Peter. 

He  crossed  the  studio  to  the  decrepit  flat-top  desk 
between  the  two  windows.  With  an  expression  of 
gravity,  almost  of  solemnity,  on  his  long  face,  he 
unlocked  the  middle  drawer  on  the  end  next  the 
wall.  Within,  on  a  heap  of  manuscripts,  letters  and 
contracts,  lay  five  other  thin  little  books  in  gray, 
buff  and  pink.  He  spread  these  in  a  row  on  the 
desk  and  added  the  new  one.  On  each  was  the  name 
of  a  savings  bank,  printed,  and  his  own  name,  writ- 

54 


THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE     55 

ten.  They  represented  savings  aggregating  now 
nearly  seven  thousand  dollars. 

Seven  thousand  dollars,  for  a  bachelor  of  thirty- 
three,  may  seem  enough  to  you.  It  did  not  seem 
enough  to  Peter.  In  fact  he  was  now  studying  the 
six  little  books  through  his  big  horn-rimmed  glasses 
(not  spectacles)  with  more  than  a  suggestion  of 
anxiety.  Peter  was  no  financier ;  and  the  thought  of 
adventuring  his  savings  on  the  turbulent  uncharted 
seas  of  finance  filled  his  mind  with  terrors.  Savings 
banks  appealed  to  him  because  they  were  built  sol- 
idly, of  stone,  and  had  immense  iron  gratings  at 
windows  and  doors.  And,  too,  you  couldn't  draw 
money  without  going  to  some  definite  personal  trou- 
ble. .  .  .  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  the  books  rep- 
resented all  he  had  or  would  ever  have  unless  he 
could  get  more.  Nobody  paid  Peter  a  salary.  No 
banker  or  attorney  had  a  hand  in  taxing  his  income 
at  the  source.  The  Trufflcr  might  succeed  and  make 
him  mildly  rich.  Or  it  might  die  in  a  night,  leaving 
the  thousand-dollar  "advance  against  royalties"  as 
his  entire  income  from  more  than  a  year  of  work. 
His  last  two  plays  had  failed,  you  know.  Plays 
usually  failed.  Eighty  or  ninety  per  cent,  of  them 
— yes,  a  good  ninety ! 

Theoretically,  the  seven  thousand  dollars  should 


56  THE   TRUFFLERS 

carry  him  two  or  three  years.  Practically,  they 
might  not  carry  him  one.  For  he  couldn't  possibly 
know  in  advance  what  he  would  do  with  them. 
Genius  laughs  at  savings  banks. 

Peter  sighed,  put  the  six  little  books  away  and 
locked  the  drawer. 

Locked  it  with  sudden  swiftness  and  caution,  for 
Hy  Lowe  just  then  burst  in  the  outer  door  and  dove, 
humming  a  one-step,  into  the  bedroom. 

Peter,  pocketing  the  keys  carefully  so  that  they 
would  not  jingle,  put  on  a  casual  front  and  followed 
him  there. 

Hy,  still  in  overcoat  and  hat,  was  gazing  with 
rapt  eyes  at  a  snap-shot  of  two  girls.  He  laughed  a 
little,  self-consciously,  at  the  sight  of  Peter  and  set 
the  picture  against  the  mirror  on  his  side  of  the 
bureau. 

There  were  other  pictures  stuck  about  Hy's  end 
of  the  mirror;  all  of  girls  and  not  all  discreet.  One 
of  these,  pushed  aside  to  make  room  for  the  new 
one,  fell  to  the  floor.  -  Hy  let  it  lie. 

Peter  leaned  over  and  peered  at  the  snap-shot.  He 
recognized  the  two  girls  as  Betty  Deane  and  Sue 
Wilde. 

"Look  here,"  said  Peter,  "where  have  you  been?" 

"Having  a  dish  of  tea." 


They  represented  savings  aggregating  now  nearly  seven 
thousand  dollars 


THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE     57 

"Don't  you  ever  work  ?" 

"Since  friend  Betty  turned  up,  my  son,  I'm  won- 
dering if  I  ever  shall." 

Peter  grunted.  His  gaze  was  centered  not  on 
Hy's  friend  Betty,  but  on  the  slim  familiar  figure 
at  the  right. 

"Just  you  two?" 

"Sue  came  in.  Look  here,  Pete,  I'm  generous. 
We're  going  to  cut  it  in  half.  I  get  Betty,  you  get 
Sue." 

Peter,  deepening  gloom  on  his  face,  sat  down 
abruptly  on  the  bed. 

"Easy,  my  son,"  observed  Hy  sagely,  "or  that 
girl  will  be  going  to  your  head.  That's  your  trou- 
ble, Pete ;  you  take  'em  seriously.  And  believe  me, 
it  won't  do  1" 

"It  isn't  that,  Hy — I'm  not  in  love  with  her." 

There  was  a  silence  while  Hy  removed  garments. 

"It  isn't  that,"  protested  Peter  again.  "No,  it 
isn't  that.  She  irritates  me." 

Hy  took  off  his  collar. 

"Any — anybody  else  there?"  asked  Peter. 

"Only  that  fellow  Zanin.  He  came  in  with  Sue. 
By  the  way,  he  wants  to  see  you.  Seems  to  have  an 
idea  he  can  interest  you  in  a  scheme  he's  got.  Talked 
quite  a  lot  about  it." 


58  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Peter  did  not  hear  all  of  this.  At  the  mention  of 
Zanin  he  got  up  suddenly  and  rushed  off  into  the 
studio. 

Hy  glanced  after  him;  then  hummed  (more 
softly,  out  of  a  new  respect  for  Peter)  a  hesitation 
waltz  as  he  cut  the  new  picture  in  half  with  the 
manicure  scissors  and  put  Sue  on  Peter's  side  of 
the  bureau. 

The  Worm  came  in,  dropped  coat  and  hat  on  a 
chair  and  settled  himself  to  his  pipe  and  the  eve- 
ning paper.  Peter,  stretched  on  the  couch,  greeted 
him  with  a  grunt.  Hy  appeared,  in  undress,  and 
attacked  the  piano  with  half-suppressed  exuberance. 

It  was  the  Worm's  settled  habit  to  read  straight 
through  the  paper  without  a  word;  then  to  stroll 
out  to  dinner,  alone  or  with  the  other  two,  as  it  hap- 
pened, either  silent  or  making  quietly  casual  re- 
marks that  you  didn't  particularly  need  to  answer  if 
you  didn't  feel  like  it.  He  made  no  demands  on 
you,  the  Worm.  He  wasn't  trivial  and  gay,  like 
Hy;  or  burning  with  inner  ambitions  and  desires, 
like  Peter. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  he  broke  bounds. 
Slowly  the  paper,  not  half  read,  sank  to  his  knees. 
He  smoked  up  a  pipeful  thus.  His  sandy  thoughtful 
face  was  sober. 


THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE     59 

Finally  he  spoke. 

"Saw  Sue  Wilde  to-day.  Met  her  outside  the  Pa- 
risian, and  we  had  lunch  together." 

Peter  shot  a  glance  at  him. 

The  Worm,  oblivious  to  Peter,  tamped  his  pipe 
with  a  pencil  and  spoke  again. 

"Been  trying  to  make  her  out.  She  and  I 
have  had  several  talks.  I  can't  place  her." 

This  was  so  unusual — from  the  Worm  it 
amounted  to  an  outburst! — that  even  Hy,  swing- 
ing around  from  the  yellow  keyboard,  waited  in 
silence. 

"You  fellows  know  Greenwich  Village,"  the 
musing  one  went  on,  puffing  slowly  and  following 
with  his  eyes  the  curling  smoke.  "You  know  the 
dope — 'Oats  for  Women !'  somebody  called  it — that 
a  woman  must  be  free  as  a  man,  free  to  go  to  the 
devil  if  she  chooses.  You  know,  so  often,  when 
these  feminine  professors  of  freedom  talk  to  you 
how  they  over-emphasize  the  sex  business — by  the 
second  quarter-hour  you  find  yourself  solemnly 
talking  woman's  complete  life,  rights  of  the  unmar- 
ried mother,  birth  control;  and  after  you've  got 
away  from  the  lady  you  can't  for  the  life  of  you 
figure  out  how  those  topics  ever  got  started,  when 
likely  as  not  you  were  thinking  about  your  job  or 


60  THE    TRUFFLERS 

the  war  or  Honus  Wagner's  batting  slump.  You 
know." 

Hy  nodded,  with  a  quizzical  look.  Peter  was  mo- 
tionless and  silent. 

"You  know — I  don't  want  to  knock ;  got  too  much 
respect  for  the  real  idealists  here  in  the  Village 
— but  you  fellows  do  know  how  you  get  to  antici- 
pating that  stuff  and  discounting  it  before  it  comes ; 
and  you  can't  help  seeing  that  the  woman  is  more 
often  than  not  just  dressing  up  ungoverned  desires 
in  sociological  language,  that  she's  leaping  at  the 
chance  to  experiment  with  emotions  that  women 
have  had  to  suppress  for  ages.  Back  of  it  is  the  new 
Russianism  they  live  and  breathe — to  know  no  right 
or  wrong,  trust  your  instincts,  respond  to  your  emo- 
tions, bow  to  your  desires.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  here's 
Sue  Wilde.  She  looks  like  a  regular  little  radical. 
And  acts  it.  Breaks  away  from  her  folks — lives 
with  the  regular  bunch  in  the  Village — takes  up  pub- 
lic dancing  and  acting — smokes  her  cigarettes — 
knows  her  Strindberg  and  Freud — yet  .  .  .  well, 
I've  dined  with  her  once,  lunched  with  her  once, 
spent  five  hours  in  her  apartment  talking  Isadora 
Duncan  as  against  Pavlowa,  even  walked  the  streets 
half  a  night  arguing  about  what  she  calls  the  Truth 


THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE    61 

.  .  .  and  we  haven't  got  around  to  'the  complete 
life'  yet." 

"How  do  you  dope  it  out?"  asked  Hy. 

"Well" — the  Worm  deliberately  thought  out  his 
reply — "I  think  she's  so.  Most  of  'em  aren't  so. 
She's  a  real  natural  oasis  in  a  desert  of  poseurs. 
Probably  that's  why  I  worry  about  her." 

"Why  worry?"    From  Hy. 

"True  enough.  But  I  do.  It's  the  situation  she 
has  drifted  into,  I  suppose.  If  she  was  really  ma- 
ture you'd  let  her  look  out  for  herself.  It's  the  old 
he  protective  instinct  in  me,  I  suppose.  The  on$ 
thing  on  earth  she  would  resent  more  than  anything 
else.  But  this  fellow  Zanin  .  .  ." 

He  painstakingly  made  a  smoke  ring  and  sent  it 
toward  the  tarnished  brass  hook  on  the  window- 
frame.  It  missed.  He  tried  again. 

Peter  stirred  uncomfortably,  there  on  the  couch. 
"What  has  she  told  you  about  Zanin?"  he  asked, 
desperately  controlling  his  voice. 

"She  doesn't  know  that  she  has  told  me  much  of 
anything.  But  she  has  talked  her  work  and  pros- 
pects. And  the  real  story  comes  through.  Just  this 
afternoon  since  I  left  her,  it  has  been  piecing  itself 
together.  She  is  frank,  you  know." 


62  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Peter  suppressed  a  groan.     She  was  frank! 

"Zanin  is  in  love  with  her.  He  has  been  for  a 
year  or  more.  He  wrote  Any  Street  for  her,  in- 
corporated some  of  her  own  ideas  in  it.  He  has 
been  tireless  at  helping  her  work  up  her  dancing  and 
pantomime.  Why,  as  near  as  I  can  see,  the  man  has 
been  downright  devoting  his  life  to  her,  all  this  time. 
It's  rather  impressive.  But  then,  Zanin  is  impress- 
ive." 

Peter  broke  out  now.  "Does  he  expect  to  marry 
her — Zanin  ?" 

"Marry  her?    Oh,  no." 

"  'Oh,  no !'    Good  God  then—" 

"Oh,  come,  Pete,  you  surely  know  Zanin's  atti- 
tude toward  marriage.  Pie  has  written  enough  on 
the  subject.  And  lectured — and  put  it  in  those 
little  plays  of  his." 

"What  is  his  attitude  ?" 

"That  marriage  is  immoral.  Worse  than  im- 
moral— vicious.  He  has  expounded  that  stuff  for 
years." 

"And  what  does  she  say  to  all  this  ?"  This  ques- 
tion came  from  Hy,  for  Peter  was  speechless. 

"Simply  that  he  doesn't  rouse  any  emotional  re- 
sponse in  her.  I'm  not  sure  that  she  isn't  a  little 
sorry  he  doesn't.  She  would  be  honest  you  know. 


[THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE    63 

And  that's  the  thing  about  Sue — my  guess  about 
her,  at  least — that  she  won't  approach  love  as  an 
experiment  or  an  experience.  It  will  have  to  be 
the  real  thing." 

He  tried  again,  in  his  slow  calm  way,  to  hang  a 
smoke  ring  on  the  brass  hook. 

"Proceed,"  said  Hy.  "Your  narrative  interests 
me  strangely." 

"Well,"  said  the  Worm  slowly,  "Zanin  is  about 
ready  to  put  over  his  big  scheme.  He  has  con- 
trived at  last  to  get  one  of  the  managers  interested. 
And  it  hangs  on  Sue's  personality.  The  way  he  has 
worked  it  out  with  her,  planning  it  as  a  concrete  ex- 
pression of  that  half  wild,  natural  self  of  hers,  I 
doubt  if  it,  this  particular  thing,  could  be  done  with- 
out her.  It  is  Sue — an  expressed,  interpreted  Sue." 

"This  must  be  the  thing  he  is  trying  to  get  Pete 
in  on." 

"The  same.  Zanin  knows  that  where  he  fails  is 
on  the  side  of  popularity.  He  has  intelligence,  but 
he  hasn't  the  trick  of  reaching  the  crowd.  And  he  is 
smart  enough  to  see  what  he  needs  and  go  after  it." 

"He  is  going  after  the  crowd,  then?" 

"Absolutely." 

"And  what  becomes  of  the  noble  artistic  standards 
he's  been  bleeding  and  dying  for  ?" 


64  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"I  don't  know.  He  really  has  been  bleeding  and 
dying.  You  have  to  admit  that.  He  lives  in  one 
mean  room,  over  there  in  Fourth  Street.  A  good 
deal  of  the  little  he  eats  he  cooks  with  his  own  hands 
on  a  kerosene  stove.  Those  girls  are  always  taking 
him  in  and  feeding  him  up.  He  works  twenty  and 
thirty  hours  at  a  stretch  over  his  productions  at  the 
Crossroads.  Must  have  the  constitution  of  a  bull 
elephant.  If  it  was  just  a  matter  of  picking  up 
money,  he  could  easily  go  back  into  newspaper  work 
or  the  press-agent  game.  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure  that 
the  man  isn't  full  of  a  struggling  genius  that  hasn't 
really  begun  to  find  expression.  If  he  is,  it  will 
drive  him  into  bigger  and  bigger  things.  He  won't 
worry  about  consistency — he'll  just  do  what  every 
genius  does,  he'll  fight  his  way  through  to  complete 
self-expression,  blindly,  madly,  using  everything 
that  comes  in  his  way,  trampling  on  everything  that 
he  can't  use." 

Peter,  twitching  with  irritation,  sat  up  and  snorted 
out: 

"For  God's  sake,  what's  the  scheme!" 

The  Worm  regarded  Peter  thoughtfully  and  not 
unhumorously,  as  if  reflecting  further  over  his  ob- 
servations on  genius.  Then  he  explained  : 

"He's  going  to  preach  the  Greenwich  Village  free- 


THE  WORM  POURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE    65 

dom  on  every  little  moving-picture  screen  in 
America — shout  the  new  naturalism  to  a  hypocritical 
world." 

"Has  he  worked  out  his  story?"  asked  Hy. 

"In  the  rough,  I  think.  But  he  wants  a  practical 
theatrical  man  to  give  it  form  and  put  it  over.  That's 
where  Pete  comes  in.  ...  Get  it?  It's  daring 
stuff.  He'll  use  Sue's  finest  quality,  her  faith,  as 
well  as  her  grace  of  body.  What  I  could  get  out  of 
it  sounds  a  good  deal  like  the  Garden  of  Eden  story 
without  the  moral.  An  Artzibasheff  paradise.  Sue 
says  that  she'll  have  to  wear  a  pretty  primitive  cos- 
tume." 

"Which  doesn't  bother  her,  I  imagine,"  said  Hy. 

"Not  a  bit." 

Peter,  leaning  back  on  stiff  arms,  staring  at  the 
opposite  wall,  suddenly  found  repictured  to  his 
mind's  eye  a  dramatic  little  scene :  In  the  Crossroads 
Theater,  out  by  the  ticket  entrance;  the  audience 
in  their  seats,  old  Wilde,  the  Walrus  himself,  in  his 
oddly  primitive,  early  Methodist  dress — long  black 
coat,  white  bow  tie,  narrow  strip  of  whisker  on  each 
grim  cheek ;  Sue  in  her  newsboy  costume,  hair  cut 
short  under  the  ragged  felt  hat,  face  painted  for  the 
stage,  her  deep-green  eyes  blazing.'  The  father  had 
said:  "You  have  no  shame,  then — appearing  like 


66  THE   TRUFFLERS 

this  ?"  To  which  the  daughter  had  replied :  "No — 
none !" 

Hy  was  speaking  again.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  Zanin  will  be  able  to  put  this  scheme  over  on 
Sue?" 

The  Worm  nodded,  very  thoughtful.  "Yes,  she 
is  going  into  it,  I  think." 

Peter  broke  out  again:  "But — but — but — 
but  .  .  ." 

"You  fellows  want  to  get  this  thing  straight  in 
your  heads,"  the  Worm  continued,  ignoring  Peter. 
"Her  reasons  aren't  by  any  means  so  weak.  In  the 
first  place  the  thing  comes  to  her  as  a  real  chance  to 
express  in  the  widest  possible  way  her  own  protest 
against  conventionality.  As  Zanin  has  told  her,  she 
will  be  able  to  express  naturalness  and  honesty  of 
life  to  millions  where  Isadora  Duncan,  with  all  her 
perfect  art,  can  only  reach  thousands.  Yes,  Zanin 
is  appealing  to  her  best  qualities.  And,  at  that,  I'm 
not  at  all  sure  that  he  isn't  honest  in  it" 

"Honest!"  snorted  Peter. 

"Yes,  honest.  I  don't  say  he  is.  I  say  I'm  not 
sure.  .  .  .  Then  another  argument  with  her  is 
that  he  has  really  been  helping  her  to  grow.  He  has 
given  her  a  lot — and  without  making  any  crude  de- 
mands. Obligations  have  grown  up  there,  you  see. 


THE  WORM  FOURS  OIL  ON  A  FIRE    67 

She  knows  that  his  whole  heart  is  in  it,  that  it's 
probably  his  big  chance ;  and  while  the  girl  is  modest 
enough  she  can  see  how  dependent  the  whole  plan 
is  on  her." 

"But  —  but  —  but" — Peter  again! — "think  what 
she'll  find  herself  up  against — the  people  she'll  have 
to  work  with — the  vulgarity  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  know,"  mused  the  Worm.  "I'm  not  sure 
it  would  bother  her  much.  Those  things  don't  seem 
to  touch  her.  And  she  isn't  the  sort  to  be  stopped 
by  conventional  warnings,  anyway.  She'll  have  to 
find  it  out  all  for  herself." 

The  Worm  gave  himself  up  again  to  the  experi- 
ment with  smoke  rings.  He  blew  one — another — a 
third — at  the  curtain  hook.  Jhe  fourth  wavered 
down  over  the  hook,  hung  a  second,  broke  and 
trailed  off  into  the  atmosphere.  "Got  it  I"  said  the 
Worm,  to  himself. 

"Who's  the  manager  he's  picked  up?"  asked  Hy. 

"Fellow  named  Silverstone.  Head  of  a  movie 
producing  company." 

Peter,  to  whom  this  name  was,  apparently,  the 
last  straw,  shivered  a  little,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
for  the  second  time  within  the  hour  rushed  blindly 
off  into  solitude. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PETER  THINKS  ABOUT  THE  PICTURES 

WHEN  Hy  set  but  for  dinner,  a  little  later, 
he  found  Peter  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the 
Square. 

"Go  in  and  get  your  overcoat,"  said  Hy.  "Unless 
you're  out  for  pneumonia." 

"Hy,"  said  Peter,  his  color  vivid,  his  eyes  wild, 
"we  can't  let  those  brutes  play  with  Sue  like  that. 
We've  got  to  save  her." 

Hy  squinted  down  at  his  bamboo  stick.  "Very 
good,  my  son.  But  just  how?" 

"If  I  could  talk  with  her,  Hyf  ...  I  know 
that  game  so  well !" 

"You  could  call  her  up — " 

"Call  her  up  nothing !  I  can't  ask  to  see  her  and 
start  cold."  He  gestured  vehemently.  "Look  here, 
you're  seeing  Betty  every  day — you  fix  it." 

Hy  mused.  "They're  great  hands  to  take  tramps 
in  the  country,  those  two.  Most  every  Sunday. 

68 


ABOUT   THE    PICTURES  69 

.  .  .  If  I  could  arrange  a  little  party  of  four. 
.  .  .  See  here !  Betty's  going  to  have  dinner  with 
me  to-morrow  night." 

"For  God's  sake,  Hy,  get  me  in  on  it!" 

"Now  you  just  wait!  Sue'll  be  playing  to-mor- 
row night  at  the  Crossroad,?..  It's  Saturday,  you 
know." 

Peter's  face  fell. 

"But  it  gives  me  the  chance  to  talk  it  over  with 
friend  Betty  and  perhaps  plan  for  Sunday.  If 
Zanin'll  just  leave  her  alone  that  long." 

"It  isn't  as  if  I  were  thinking  of  myself,  Hy  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not,  Pete." 

"The  girl's  in  danger.    We've  got  to  save  her." 

"What  if  she  won't  listen !  She's  high-strung." 

"Then,"  said  Peter,  flaring  up  with  a  righteous 
passion  that  made  him  feel  suddenly  like  the  hero 
of  his  own  new  play — "then  I'll  go  straight  to  Zanin 
and  force  him  to  declare  himself!  I  will  face  him, 
as  man  to  man !" 

Thus  the  two  Seventh- Story  Men'! 

At  moments,  during  the  few  weeks  just  past, 
thoughts  of  his  anonymous  letter  had  risen  to  dis- 
turb Peter;  on  each  occasion,  until  to-night,  to  be 
instantly  overwhelmed  by  the  buoyant  egotism  that 
always  justified  Peter  to  himself.  But  the  thoughts 


70  THE   JRUFFLERS 

had  been  there.  They  had  kept  him  from  attempts 
to  see  Sue,  had  even  restrained  him  from  appearing 
where  there  was  likelihood  of  her  seeing  him;  and 
they  had  kept  him  excited  about  her.  Now  they 
rose  again  in  unsuspected  strength.  Of  course  she 
would  refuse  to  see  him !  He  slept  hardly  at  all  that 
night.  The  next  day  he  was  unstrung.  And  Satur- 
day night  (or  early  Sunday  morning)  when  Hy 
crept  in,  Peter,  in  pajamas,  all  lights  out,  was  sit- 
ting by  the  window  nursing  a  headache,  staring  out 
with  smarting  eyeballs  at  the  empty  Square. 

"Worm  here  ?"  asked  Hy  guardedly. 

"Asleep." 

Hy  lighted  the  gas;  then  looked  closely  at  the 
wretched  Peter. 

"Look  here,  my  son,"  he  said  then,  "you  need 
sleep." 

"Sleep" — muttered  Peter,  "good  God !" 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  you've  got  a  delicate  job  on 
your  hands.  It'll  take  expert  handling.  You've  got 
to  be  fit." 

"Did  you — 'did  you  see  Sue?" 

"No,  only  Betty.  But  they've  been  talking  you 
over.  Sue  told  Betty  that  you  interest  her." 

"Oh— she  did!     Say  anything  else?" 

"More  or  less.     Look  here — has  anything  hap- 


ABOUT    THE    PICTURES  71 

pened  that  I'm  not  in  on  ?  I  mean  between  you  and 
Sue." 

Peter  shivered  slightly.  "How  could  anything 
happen?  I  haven't  been  seeing  her." 

"Well — Sue  says  you're  the  strangest  man  she 
ever  knew.  She  can't  figure  you  out.  Betty  was 
wondering." 

Hy  was  removing  his  overcoat  now.  Suddenly  he 
gave  way  to  a  soft  little  chuckle. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  laugh!" 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  Yes,  I  fixed 
it.  But  there's  something  up — a  new  deal.  This 
here  Silverstone  saw  Any  Street  last  night  and  went 
dippy  over  Sue.  Betty  told  me  that  much  but  says 
she  can't  tell  me  the  rest  because  it's  Sue's  secret, 
not  hers.  Only  it  came  out  that  Zanin  has  dropped 
the  idea  of  bringing  you  into  it.  Silverstone  bought 
supper  for  the  girls  and  Zanin  last  night,  and  this 
afternoon  he  took  Zanin  out  to  his  Long  Beach  house 
for  the  night,  in  a  big  car.  And  took  his  stenogra- 
pher along.  Everybody's  mysterious  and  in  a  hurry. 
Oh,  there's  a  hen  on,  all  right !" 

"So  I'm  out !"  muttered  Peter  between  set  teeth. 
"But  it's  no  mystery.  Jhink  I  don't  know  Silver- 
stone?" 

"What'llhe'do?" 


72  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Freeze  out  everybody  and  put  Sue  across  him- 
self. What's  that  guy's  is  his.  Findings  is  keep- 
ings." 

"But  will  Sue  let  him  freeze  Zanin  out  ?" 

"That's  a  point.  .  .  .  But  if  she  won't,  he'll 
be  wise  in  a  minute.  Trust  Silverstone!  He'll  let 
Zanin  think  he's  in,  then." 

"Things  look  worse,  I  take  it." 

"A  lot." 

Hy  was  undressing.  He  sat  now,  caught  by  a 
sudden  fragrant  memory,  holding  a  shoe  in  mid- 
air, and  chuckled  again. 

"Stop  that  cackle!"  growled  Peter.  "You  said 
you  fixed  it." 

"I  did.  Quit  abusing  me  and  you'll  realize  that 
I'm  coming  through  with  all  you  could  ask.  We 
leave  at  eleven,  Hudson  Tunnel,  for  the  Jersey  hills 
— we  four.  I  bring  the  girls ;  you  meet  us  at  the  Tun- 
nel. Zanin  is  safe  at  Long  Beach.  We  eat  at  a  coun- 
try road  house.  We  walk  miles  in  the  open  country. 
We  drift  home  in  the  evening,  God  knows  when! 
.  .  .  Here  I  hand  you,  in  one  neat  parcel,  pleasant 
hillsides,  purling  brooks,  twelve  mortal  hours  of  the 
blessed  damosel,  and" — he  caught  up  the  evening 
paper — "  'fair  and  warmer' — and  perfect  weather. 
And  what  do  I  get  ?  Abuse.  Nothing  but  abuse !" 


ABOUT   THE   PICTURES  73 

With  this,  he  deftly  juggled  his  two  shoes,  caught 
both  in  a  final  flourish,  looked  across  at  the  abject 
Peter  and  grinned. 

"Shut  up,"  muttered  Peter  wearily. 

"Very  good,  sir.  And  you  go  to  bed.  [Your 
nerves  are  a  mess." 

Into  Peter's  brain  as  he  hurried  toward  the  Tun- 
nel Station,  the  next  morning,  darted  an  uninvited, 
startling  thought. 

Here  was  Zanin,  idealist  in  the  drama,  prophet 
of  the  new  Russianism,  deserting  the  stage  for  the 
screen ! 

What  was  it  the  Worm  had  represented  him  as 
saying  to  Sue  .  .  .  that  she  would  be  enabled  to 
•express  her  ideals  to  millions  where  Isadora  Duncan 
could  reach  only  thousands? 

Millions  in  place  of  thousands ! 

His  imagination  pounced  on  the  thought.  He 
stopped  short  on  the  street  to  consider  it — until  a 
small  boy  laughed ;  then  he  hurried  on. 

He  looked  with  new  eyes  at  the  bill-boards  he 
passed.  Two-thirds  of  them  flaunted  moving-pic- 
ture features.  .  .  .  He  had  been  passing  such 
posters  for  a  year  or  more  without  once  reading  out 
of  them  a  meaning  personal  to  himself.  He  had 
been  sticking  blindly,  doggedly  to  plays — ninety 


74  THE   TRUFFLERS 

per  cent,  of  which,  of  all  plays,  failed  utterly.  It 
suddenly  came  home  to  him  that  the  greatest 
dramatists,  like  the  greatest  actors  and  actresses, 
were  working  for  the  camera.  All  but  himself,  ap- 
parently! .  .  .  The  theaters  were  fighting  for  the 
.barest  existence  where  they  were  not  surrendering 
outright.  Why,  he  himself  patronized  movies  more 
often  than  plays!  Yet  he  had  stupidly  refused  to 
catch  the  significance  of  it.  .  .  .  The  Truffler 
would  fail,  of  course;  just  as  the  two  before  it  had 
failed.  Still  he  had,  until  this  actual  minute,  clung 
to  it  as  his  one  hope. 

Millions  for  thousands ! 

He  was  thinking  now  not  of  persons  but  of  dol- 
lars. 

Millions  for  thousands. 

He  paused  at  a  news  stand.  Sprawled  over  it  were 
specimens  of  the  new  sort  of  periodical,  the  moving- 
picture  magazines.  So  the  publishers,  like  the  the- 
atrical men,  were  being  driven  back  by  the  invader. 

He  bought  the  fattest,  most  brightly  colored  of 
these  publications  and  turned  the  pages  eagerly  as 
he  descended  into  the  station. 

He  stood  half -hidden  behind  a  pillar,  his  eyes 
wandering  from  the  magazine  to  the  ticket  gate 
where  Hy  and  the  two  girls  would  appear,  then  back 


ABOUT    THE    PICTURES  75 

to  the  magazine.  Those  pages  reeked  of  enthusiasm, 
fresh  ideas,  prosperity.  They  stirred  new  depths 
within  his  soul. 

He  saw  his  little  party  coming  in  through  the  gate. 

The  two  girls  wore  sweaters.  Their  skirts  were 
short,  their  tan  shoes  low  and  flat  of  heel. 

They  were  attractive,  each  in  her  individual  way ; 
Sue  less  regular  as  to  features,  but  brighter,  slimmer, 
more  alive.  Betty's  more  luxurious  figure  was  set 
off  almost  too  well  by  the  snug  sweater.  As  she 
moved,  swaying  a  little  from  the  hips,  her  eyelids 
drooping  rather  languidly,  the  color  stirring  faintly 
under  her  fair  fine  skin,  she  was,  Peter  decided,  un- 
conscious neither  of  the  sweater  nor  of  the  body 
within  it.  ...  Just  before  the  train  roared  in, 
while  Sue,  all  alertness,  was  looking  out  along  the 
track,  Peter  saw  Hy's  hand  brush  Betty's.  For  an 
instant  their  fingers  intertwined;  then  the  hands 
drifted  casually  apart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SUE  WALKS  OVER  A  HILL 

PETER  joined  them — a  gloomy  man,  haunted 
by  an  anonymous  letter.     Sue  was  matter-of- 
fact.    It  seemed  to  Hy  that  she  made  some  effort  to 
put  the  well-known  playwright  more  nearly  at  his 
ease. 

They  lunched,  an  hour's  ride  out  in  Northern  New 
Jersey,  at  a  little  motorists'  tavern  that  Hy  guided 
them  to.  They  sat  on  a  shaded  veranda  while 
the  men  smoked  cigars  and  the  girls  smoked 
cigarettes.  After  which  they  set  forth  on  what  was 
designed  to  -be  a  four-hour  tramp  through  the  hills 
to  another  railroad — Sue  and  Peter  ahead  (as  it 
turned  out)  ;  Hy  and  Betty  lagging  behind. 

The  road  curved  over  hills  and  down  into  min- 
iature valleys.  There  were  expanses  of  plowed 
fields,  groves  of  tall  bare  trees,  groups  of  farm- 
houses. Robins  hopped  beside  the  road.  The  bright 
sun  mitigated  the  crisp  sting  in  the  air.  A  sense  of 
early  spring  touched  eye  and  ear  and  nostril. 

76 


SUE   WALKS    OVER   A   HILL         77 

Peter  felt  it;  breathed  more  deeply;  actually 
smiled. 

Sue  threw  back  her  head  and  hummed  softly. 

Hy  and  Betty  dropped  farther  and  farther  behind. 

Once  Sue  turned  and  waved  them  on ;  then  stood 
and  laughed  with  sheer  good  humor  at  their  delib- 
erate, unrhythmical  step. 

"Come  on,"  she  said  to  Peter.  "They  don't  get 
it — the  joy  of  it.  You  have  to  walk  with  a  steady 
swing.  It  takes  you  a  mile  or  two,  at  that,  to  get 
going.  When  I'm  in  my  stride,  it  carries  me  along 
so  I  hate  to  stop  at  all.  You  know,  you  can't  pick  it 
up  again  right  off — the  real  swing.  Walking  is  a 
game — a  fine  game !" 

Peter  didn't  know.  He  had  never  thought  of 
walking  as  a  game.  He  played  golf  a  little,  tennis  a 
little  less.  It  had  always  been  difficult  for  him  to 
hold  his  mind  on  these  unimportant  pursuits.  But 
he  found  himself  responding  eagerly. 

"You've  gone  in  a  lot  for  athletics,"  said  he, 
thinking  of  the  lightness,  the  sheer  ease,  with  which 
she  had  moved  about  the  little  Crossroads  stage. 

"Oh,  yes — at  school  and  college — basket  ball, 
running,  fencing,  dancing  and  this  sort  of  thing. 
Dancing  especially;.  I've  really  worked  some  at 
that,  you  know." 


78  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Yes,"  said  he  moodily,  "I  know." 

They  swung  down  into  a  valley,  over  a  bridge,  up 
the  farther  slope,  through  a  notch  and  out  along  a 
little  plateau  with  a  stream  winding  across  it. 

Peter  found  himself  in  some  danger  of  forgetting 
his  earnest  purpose.  He  could  fairly  taste  the  fresh 
spring  air.  He  could  not  resist  occasionally  glanc- 
ing sidelong  at  his  companion  and  thinking — "She 
is  great  in  that  sweater!"  A  new  soft  magic  was 
stealing  in  everywhere  among  what  he  had  regarded 
as  his  real  thoughts  and  ideas.  Once  her  elbow 
brushed  his;  and  little  flames  rose  in  his  spirit. 
.  .  .  She  walked  like  a  boy.  She  talked  like  a 
boy.  She  actually  seemed  to  think  like  a  boy.  The 
Worm's  remark  came  to  him,  with  an  odd  stabbing 
effect  .  .  .  "We  haven't  got  around  to  'the  com- 
plete life' yet!" 

She  quite  bewildered  him.  For  she  distinctly  was 
not  a  boy.  She  was  a  young  woman.  She  couldn't 
possibly  be  so  free  from  thoughts  of  self  and  the 
drama  of  life,  of  man  and  the  all-conquering  urge 
of  nature !  As  a  dramatist,  as  a  student  of  women, 
he  knew  better.  No,  she  couldn't — no  more  than 
"friend  Betty"  back  there,  philandering  along  with 
Hy.  [The  Worm  had  guaranteed  her  innocence 
.  .  .  but  the  Worm  notoriously  didn't  understand 


SUE   WALKS    OVER   A   HILL         79 

women.  No,  it  couldn't  be  true.  For  she  had 
broken  away  from  her  folks.  She  did  live  with  the 
regular  bunch  in  the  Village.  She  did  undoubtedly 
know  her  Strindberg  and  Freud.  She  had  taken 
up  public  dancing  and  acting.  She  did  smoke  her 
cigarettes — had  smoked  one  not .  half  an  hour 
back,  publicly,  on  the  veranda  of  a  road  house! 
.  .  .  He  felt  again  the  irritation  she  had  on 
other  occasions  stirred  in  him. 

He  slowed  down,  tense  with  this  bewilderment. 
He  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 

Sue  went  on  a  little  ahead;  then  stopped,  turned 
and  regarded  him  with  friendly  concern! 

"Anything  the  matter  ?" 

"No— oh,  no!" 

"Perhaps  we  started  too  soon  after  lunch." 

She  was  babying  him ! 

"No — no  ,  .  .  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing! .  .  ." 

Almost  angrily  he  struck  out  at  a  swift  pace.  He 
would  show  her  who  was  the  weakling  in  this  little 
party !  He  would  make  her  cry  for  mercy ! 

But  she  struck  out  with  him.  Swinging  along  at 
better  than  four  miles  an  hour  they  followed  the 
road  into  another  valley  and  for  a  mile  or  two  along 
by  a  bubbling  brook. 


80  THE    TRUFFLERS 

It  was  Peter  who  slackened  first.  His  feet  began 
hurting;  an  old  trouble  with  his  arches.  And  de- 
spite the  tang  in  the  air,  he  was  dripping  with  sweat. 
He  mopped  his  forehead  and  made  a  desperate  ef- 
fort to  breathe  easily. 

Sue  was  a  thought  flushed,  there  was  a  shine  in 
her  eyes;  she  danced  a  few  steps  in  the  road  and 
smiled  happily. 

"That's  the  thing!"  she  cried.  "That's  the  way  I 
love  to  move  along!" 

Apparently  she  liked  him  better  for  walking  like 
that.  It  really  seemed  to  make  a  difference.  He  set 
his  teeth  and  struck  out  again,  saying — "All  right. 
Let's  have  some  more  of  it,  then !"  And  sharp  little 
pains  shot  through  his  insteps. 

"No,"  said  she,  "it's  best  to  slow  down  for  a 
while.  I  like  to  speed  up  just  now  and  then.  Be- 
sides, I've  got  something  on  my  mind.  Let's  talk." 

He  walked  in  silence,  waiting. 

"It's  about  that  other  talk  we  had,"  said  she.  "It 
has  bothered  me  since.  I  told  you  your  plays  were 
dreadful.  You  remember?" 

He  laughed  shortly.     "Oh,  yes;  I  remember." 

"There,"  said  she,  "I  did  hurt  you.  I  must  have 
been  perfectly  outrageous." 

He  made  no  reply  to  this;  merely  mopped  his 


SUE   WALKS    OVER   A   HILL         81 

forehead  again  and  strode  along.  The  pains  were 
shooting  above  the  insteps  now,  clear  up  into  the 
calves  of  his  legs. 

"I  ought  to  have  made  myself  plainer,"  said  she. 
"I  remember  talking  as  if  you  couldn't  write  at  all. 
Of  course  I  didn't  mean  that,  and  I  had  no  right  to 
act  as  if  I  held  myself  superior  to  a  man  of  your  ex- 
perience. That  was  silly.  What  I  really  meant  was 
that  you  didn't  write  from  a  point  of  view  that  I 
could  accept." 

"What  you  said  was,"  observed  Peter,  aiming  at 
her  sort  of  good-humored  directness,  and  missing, 
"  'the  difficulty  is,  it's  the  whole  thing — your  atti- 
tude toward  life— your  hopeless  sentimentality 
about  women,  the  slushy  horrible  Broadway  false- 
ness that  lies  back  of  everything  you  do — the  Broad- 
way thing,  always.'  .  .  .  Those  were  your 
words." 

"Oh,  no!"  She  was  serious  now.  He  thought 
she  looked  hurt,  almost.  The  thought  gave  him 
sudden  savage  pleasure.  "Surely,  I  didn't  say  that." 

"You  did.  And  you  added  that  my  insight  into 
life  is  just  about  that  of  a  hardened  director  of  one- 
reel  films." 

She  was  hurt  now.  She  walked  on  for  a  little 
time,  quite  silent. 


82  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Finally  she  stopped  short,  looked  right  at  him, 
threw  out  her  hands  (he  noted  and  felt  the  grace  of 
the  movement!)  and  said — 

"I  don't  know  how  to  answer  you.  Probably  I 
did  say  just  about  those  words  .  .  ." 

"They  are  exact." 

".  .  .  and  of  course,  in  one  sense,  I  meant 
them.  I  do  feel  that  way  about  your  work.  But  not 
at  all  in  the  personal  sense  that  you  have  taken  it. 
And  I  recognize  your  ability  as  clearly  as  anybody. 
Can't  you  see,  man — that's  exactly  the  reason  I 
talked  that  way  to  you  ?"  There  was  feeling  in  her 
voice  now.  "I  suppose  I  had  a  crazy,  kiddish  notion 
of  converting  you,  of  making  you  work  for  us.  It 
was  because  you  are  so  good  at  it  that  I  went  after 
you  like  that.  You  are  worth  going  after."  She 
hesitated,  and  bit  her  lip.  "That's  why  I  was  so 
pleased  when  Zanin  thought  he  needed  you  for  our 
big  plan  and  disappointed  now  that  he  can't  include 
you  in  it — because  you  could  help  us  and  we  could 
perhaps  help  you.  Yes,  disappointed — in  spite  of — 
and — and  don't  forget  the  other  thing  I  said,  that 
those  of  us  that  believe  in  truth  in  the  theater  owe  it 
to  our  faith  to  get  to  work  on  the  men  that  supply 
the  plays.  .  .  .  Can't  you  see,  man!" 

She  threw  out  her  arms  again.    His  eyes,  some- 


SUE   WALKS    OVER   A   HILL         83 

thing  of  the  heady  spirits  that  she  would  perhaps 
have  called  sex  attraction  shining  in  them  now, 
could  see  little  more  than  those  arms,  the  slim  curves 
of  her  body  in  the  sweater  and  short  skirt,  her 
eager  glowing  face  and  fine  eyes.  And  his  mind 
could  see  no  more  than  his  eyes. 

An  automobile  horn  sounded.  He  caught  her  arm 
and  hurried  her  to  the  roadside.  There  were  more 
of  the  large  bare  trees  here;  and  a  rail  fence  by 
which  they  stood. 

"You  say  Zanin  has  given  up  the  idea  of  coming 
to  me  with  his  plan  ?"  He  spoke  guardedly,  thinking 
that  he  must  not  betray  the  confidences  of  Betty 
and  Hy. 

"Yes,  he  has  had  to." 

"He  spoke  to  me  about  it,  once." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  the  man  that  is  going  to  back 
him  wants  to  do  that  part  of  it  himself  or  have  his 
own  director  do  it." 

Pictures  unreeled  suddenly  before  his  mind's  eye 
— Sue,  in  "a  pretty  primitive  costume,"  exploited  at 
once  by  the  egotistical  self-seeking  Zanin,  the  un- 
scrupulous, masterful  Silverstone,  a  temperamental, 
commercial  director !  He  shivered. 

"Look  here,"  he  began — he  would  fall  back  on  his 
age  and  position ;  he  would  control  this  little  situa- 


84  THE  JRUFFLERS 

tion,  not  drift  through  it! — "you  mentioned  my  ex- 
perience. Well,  you're  right.  I've  seen  these  Broad- 
way managers  with  their  coats  off.  And  I've  seen 
what  happens  to  enthusiastic  girls  that  fall  into  their 
hands." 

He  hesitated ;  that  miserable  letter  flashed  on  his 
brain.  He  could  fairly  see  it.  And  then  his  tongue 
ran  wild. 

"Don't  you  know  that  Broadway  is  paved  with 
the  skulls  of  enthusiastic  girls!  .  «  .  Silver- 
stone  ?  Why,  if  I  were  to  give  you  a  tenth  of  Silver- 
stone's  history  you  would  shrink  from  him — you 
wouldn't  touch  the  man's  ugly  hand.  Here  you  are, 
young,  attractive — yes,  beautiful,  in  your  own 
strange  way! — full  of  a  real  faith  in  what  you  call 
the  truth,  on  the  edge  of  giving  up  your  youth  and 
your  gifts  into  the  hands  of  a  bunch  of  Broadway 
crooks.  You  talk  about  me  and  the  Broadway 
Thing.  Good  God,  can't  you  see  that  it's  girls  like 
you  that  make  the  Broadway  Thing  possible !  .  .  . 
You  talk  of  my  sentimentality  about  women,  my 
'home-and-mother-stuff/  can't  you  see  the  reason 
for  that  home-and-mother  stuff,  for  that  sentimen- 
tality, is  the  tens  of  thousands  of  girls,  like  you  and 
unlike  you  who  wanted  to  experiment,  who  thought 
they  could  make  the  world  what  they  wanted  it!'* 


SUE  WALKS   OVER  A   HILL         85 

He  paused  to  breathe.  .The  girl  before  him  was 
distinctly  flushed  now,  and  was  facing  him  with 
wide  eyes — hard  eyes,  he  thought.  He  had  poured 
out  a  flood  of  feeling,  and  it  had  left  her  cold. 

She  was  leaning  back  against  the  fence,  her  arms 
extended  along  the  top  rail,  looking  and  looking  at 
him. 

"Silverstone !"  he  snorted,  unable  to  keep  silence. 
"Silverstone !  The  man's  a  crook,  I  tell  you.  Noth- 
ing that  he  wants  gets  away  from  him.  Understand 
me?  Nothing!  You  people  will  be  children  beside 
him.  .  .  .  Zanin  is  bad  enough.  He's  smart! 
He'll  wait  you  out !  He  doesn't  believe  in  marriage, 
he  doesn't!  But  Zanin — why,  Silverstone'll  play 
with  him!" 

Her  eyes  were  still  on  him — wide  and  cold.  Now 
her  lips  parted,  and  she  drew  in  a  quick  breath 

"How  on  earth,"  she  said,  "did  you  learn  all  this  i 
Who  told  you?" 

He  shut  his  lips  close  together.  Plainly  he  had 
broken ;  he  had  gone  wild,  cleared  the  traces.  Star- 
ing at  her,  at  that  sweater,  he  tried  to  think.  .  .  . 
She  would  upbraid  Betty.  How  would  he  ever 
square  things  with  Hy ! 

He  saw  her  hands  grip  the  fence  rail  so  tightly 
that  her  finger-tips  went  white. 


86  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  again,  with  deliberate  em- 
phasis, "where  you  learned  these  things.  Who  told 
you?" 

He  felt  rather  than  saw  the  movement  of  her 
body  within  the  sweater  as  she  breathed  with  a  slow 
inhalation.  His  own  breath  came  quickly.  His 
throat  was  suddenly  dry.  He  swallowed — once, 
twice.  Then  he  stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand, 
a  trembling  hand,  on  her  forearm. 

She  shook  it  off  and  sprang  back. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that !"  his  voice  said.  And 
rushed  on:  "Can't  you  see  that  I'm  pleading  for 
your  very  life!  Can't  you  see  that  I  know  what 
you  are  headed  for — that  I  want  to  save  you  from 
yourself — that  I  love  you — that  I'm  offering  you 
my  life — that  I  want  to  take  you  out  of  this  crazy 
atmosphere  of  the  Village  and  give  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  partly  because  he  was  out  of  breath, 
and  felt,  besides,  as  if  his  tonsils  had  abruptly 
swollen  and  filled  his  throat;  partly  because  she 
turned  deliberately  away  from  him. 

He  waited,  uneasily  leaning  against  the  fence 
while  she  walked  off  a  little  way,  very  slowly ;  stood 
thinking ;  then  came  back.  She  looked  rather  white 
now,  he  thought. 

"Suppose,"  she  said,  "we  drop  this  and  finish  our 


SUE   WALKS    OVER    A   HILL         87 

walk.  It's  a  good  three  hours  yet  over  to  the  other 
railroad.  We  may  as  well  make  a  job  of  it." 

"Oh,  Sue,"  he  cried — "how  can  you !    .    .    ." 

She  stopped  him.    "Please !"  she  said. 

"But— but— " 

"Please !"  she  said  again. 

"But— but—" 

She  turned  away.  "I  simply  can  not  keep  up  this 
personal  talk.  I  would  be  glad  to  finish  the  walk 
with  you,  but  .  .  ." 

He  pulled  himself  together  amid  the  wreckage  of 
his  thoughts  and  feelings.  "But  if  I  won't  or  can't, 
you'll  have  to  walk  alone,"  he  said  for  her. 

"Yes,  I  did  mean  that.  I  am  sorry.  I  did  hope 
it  would  be  possible  .  .  ."  She  compressed  her 
lips,  then  added :  "Of  course  I  should  have  seen  that 
it  wasn't  possible,  after  what  happened." 

"Very  well,"  said  he. 

They  walked  on,  silent,  past  the  woods,  past  more 
plowed  fields,  up  another  hillside. 

She  broke  the  silence.  Gravely,  she  said :  "I  will 
say  just  one  thing  more,  since  you  already  know  so 
much.  Zanin  signs  up  with  Silverstone  to-morrow 
morning.  Or  as  soon  as  they  can  finish  drawing  up 
the  contracts.  Then  within  one  or  two  weeks — very 
soon,  certainly — we  go  down  to  Cuba  or  Florida  to 


88  THE   TRUFFLERS 

begin  taking  the  outdoor  scenes.  That,  you  see, 
settles  it." 

Peter's  mind  blurred  again.  Ugly  foggy  thoughts 
rushed  over  it.  He  stopped  short,  his  long  gloomy 
face  working  nervously. 

"Good  God !"  he  broke  out.  "You  mean  to  say— - 
you're  going  to  let  those  crooks  take  you  off — to 
Cuba !  Don't  you  see  .  .  ." 

There  was  no  object  in  saying  more.  Even  Peter 
could  see  that.  For  Sue,  after  one  brief  look  at  his 
sputtering,  distorted  face,  had  turned  away  and  was 
now  walking  swiftly  on  up  the  hill. 

"Wait!"  he  called.     "Sue!" 

She  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  passed  on  over  the 
crest.  Gradually  she  disappeared  down  the  farther 
slope — the  tarn  o'shanter  last. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    NATURE    FILM    PRODUCING    CO.  INC. 

THEN  Peter,  muttering,  talking  out  loud  to 
the  road,  the  fence,  the  trees,  the  sky,  turned 
back  to  retrace  the  miles  they  had  covered  so  lightly 
and  rapidly.  His  feet  and  legs  hurt  him  cruelly. 
He  found  a  rough  stick,  broke  it  over  a  rock  and 
used  it  for  a  cane. 

He  thought  of  joining  Hy  and  Betty.  There 
would  be  sympathy  there,  perhaps.  Hy  could  do 
something.  Hy  would  have  to  do  something. 

.Where  were  tjiey,  anyway! 

Half  an  hour  later  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  them. 
They  were  sitting  on  a  boulder  on  a  grassy  hillside, 
some  little  distance  from  the  road.  They  appeared 
to  be  gazing  dreamily  off  across  a  valley. 

Peter  hesitated.  They  were  very  close  together. 
They  hardly  seemed  to  invite  interruption.  Then, 
while  he  stood,  dusty  and  bedraggled,  in  real  pain, 
watching  them,  he  saw  Betty  lean  back  against  the 
•boulder — or  was  it  against  Hy's  armH 

89 


90  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Hy  seemed  to  be  leaning  over  her.  His  head  bent 
lower  still.  It  quite  hid  hers  from  view. 

He  was  kissing  her ! 

Blind  to  the  shooting  pains  in  his  feet  and  legs, 
Peter  rushed,  stumbling,  away.  In  his  profound  self- 
pity,  he  felt  that  even  Hy  had  deserted  him.  He 
was  alone,  in  a  world  that  had  no  motive  or  thought 
but  to  do  him  evil,  to  pervert  his  finest  motives,  to 
crush  him  I 

Somehow  he  got  back  to  that  railroad.  An  hour 
and  a  half  he  spent  painfully  sitting  in  the  country 
station  waiting  for  a  train.  There  was  time  to 
think.  There  was  time  for  nothing  but  thinking. 

And  Peter,  as  so  often  when  deeply  stirred  either 
by  joy  or  misery,  found  himself  passing  into  a  vio- 
lent and  soul-wrenching  reaction.*  It  was  misery 
this  time.  He  was  a  crawling  abject  thing.  People 
would  laugh.  Sue  would  laugh  .  .  . 

But  would  she !  Would  she  tell  ?  Would  Hy  and 
Betty,  if  they  ever  did  get  home,  know  that  she  had 
returned  alone? 

Those  deep-green  eyes  of  hers,  the  strong  little 
chin.  .  .  .  She  was  Miss  Independence  herself. 

Zanin  was  signing  with  Silverstone  in  the  morn- 
ing! Or  as  soon  as  the  contracts  could  be  drawn. 


THE  NATURE  FILM  PRODUCING  CO.    91 

The  train  came  rumbling  in.  Peter,  in  physical 
and  spiritual  agony,  boarded  it. 

All  these  painful,  exciting  experiences  of  the  day 
were  drawing  together  toward  some  new  unex- 
pected result.  He  was  beaten — yet  was  he  beaten ! 
A  news  agent  walked  through  the  train  with  a  great 
pile  of  magazines  on  his  arm. 

Peter  suddenly  thought  of  the  moving-picture 
periodical  he  had  dropped,  so  long,  long  ago,  in  the 
Tunnel  Station.  He  bought  another  copy;  and 
again  turned  the  pages.  Then  he  let  it  fall  to  his 
knees  and  stared  out  the  window  with  eyes  that  saw; 
little. 

Zanin — Silverstone — Sue  walking  alone  over  a 
hill!  .  .  .  Peter's  little  lamp  of  genius  was  burn- 
ing once  more.  He  was  thrilled,  if  frightened,  by 
the  ideas  that  were  forming  in  that  curious  mind  of 
his. 

Shortly  after  seven  o'clock  of  the  same  evening 
Jacob  Zanin  reached  his  mean  little  room  in  Fourth 
Street,  after  a  stirring  twenty-four  hours  at  Silver- 
stone's  house  at  Long  Beach  and  an  ineffectual  at- 
tempt to  find  Sue  in  her  rooms.  Those  rooms  were 
dim  and  silent.  No  one  answered  his  ring.  No  one 
answered  his  knock  when  he  finally  succeeded  in 
following  another  tenant  of  the  building  into  the; 


92  THE   FRUFFLERS 

inner  hall.  Which  explains  why  he  was  at  his  room, 
alone,  at  a  quarter  to  eight  when  Peter  Ericson 
Mann  called  there. 

Peter,  pale,  nerves  tense,  a  feverish  glow  in  his 
eyes  behind  the  horn-rimmed  glasses,  leaned  heavily 
on  a  walking  stick  in  the  dark  hallway,  listening 
to  the  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  coming  across 
the  creaking  boards  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 
Then  the  door  opened;  and  Zanin,  coatless,  collar- 
less,  hair  rumpled  over  his  ears  on  either  side  of  his 
head,  stood  there ;  a  hulking  figure  of  a  man,  full  of 
force,  not  untouched  with  inner  fire;  a  little  grim; 
his  face,  that  of  a  vigorously  intellectual  Russian 
peasant,  scarred  perceptibly  by  racial  and  personal 
hardship. 

"Oh,  hello,  Mann!"  said  he.  "Come  in."  Then, 
observing  the  stick :  "What's  the  matter?" 

"A  little  arch  trouble.  Nothing  at  all."  And 
Peter  limped  in. 

Peter,  as  on  former  occasions,  felt  the  power  of 
the  fellow.  It  was  altogether  in  character  that  he 
should  exhibit  no  surprise,  though  Peter  Ericson 
Mann  had  never  before  appeared  before  him  at  that 
door.  (He  would  never  know  that  it  was  Peter's 
seventh  call  within  an  hour  and  a  half.) 

Peter  was  at  his  calmest  and  most  effective. 


THE  NATURE  FILM  PRODUCING  CO,     93 

He  looked  casually  about  at  the  scant  furniture, 
the  soap  boxes  heaped  with  books,  the  kerosene 
stove,  symbol  of  Zanin's  martyrdom  to  his  art. 

"Zanin,"  he  said,  "two  things  stuck  in  my  mind 
the  other  night  when  you  and  I  had  our  little  talk. 
One  was  the  fact  that  you  had  got  hold  of  a  big 
idea;  and  that  a  ftian  of  your  caliber  wouldn't  be 
giving  his  time  to  a  proposition  that  didn't  have 
something  vital  in  it.  .  .  .  The  other  thing  is 
Sue  Wilde." 

Zanin  was  tipped  back  in  an  armless  wooden 
chair,  taking  Peter  in  with  eyes  that  were  shrewd 
and  cold,  but  not  particularly  hostile. 

"I  didn't  realize  at  the  time  what  an  impression 
that  girl  was  making  on  me.  But  I  haven't  been 
able  to  shake  it  off.  She  has  something  distinctly 
unusual — call  it  beauty,  charm,  personality — I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  But  she  has  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Zanin,  "she  has  it.  But  see  here, 
Mann,  the  whole  situation  has  changed  since  then — " 

"Yes,"  Peter  broke  in.     "I  know." 

"You  know?" 

Peter  nodded,  offhand.  "Betty  Deane  has  talked 
to  Hy  Lowe  about  it,  and  Hy  has  told  me.  I'm 
pretty  well  informed,  as  a  matter  of  fact.'* 

"You  know  about — " 


94  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"Silverstone  ?  Yes.  Tell  me,  have  you  closed 
with  him?" 

"Well" — Zanin  hesitated.  He  was  disturbed. 
"Not  in  writing,  no." 

"Don't  you  do  it,  then." 

Zanin  pursed  his  lips,  hooked  his  feet  around  the 
legs  of  his  chair  and  tapped  on  the  front  of  the  seat 
with  his  large  fingers. 

"It's  regular  money,  Mann,"  he  said. 

"You  said  you  could  interest  me.  Why  don't  you 
try?" 

"Regular  money  is  regular  money." 

"Not  if  you  don't  get  it." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  get  it?" 

"Because  Silverstone  will.  And  look  what  he'll 
do  to  your  ideas — a  conventional  commercialist !" 

Zanin  considered  this.  "I've  got  to  risk  that.  Or 
it  looks  so.  This  thing  can't  possibly  be  done  cheap. 
I  propose  to  do  something  really  new  in  a  feature 
film — new  in  groupings,  new  in  lighting,  new  in  the 
simplicity  and  naturalness  of  the  acting.  It  will 
be  a  daring  theme,  highly  controversial,  which 
means  building  up  publicity.  It  will  take  regular 
money.  Sue  is  in  just  the  right  frame  of  mind.  A 
year  from  now  God  knows  what  she'll  be  thinking 


THE  NATURE  FILM  PRODUCING  CO.     £5 

and  feeling.  She  might  turn  square  against  our 
Village  life,  all  of  a  sudden.  I've  seen  it  happen. 
.  .  .  And  now,  with  everything  right,  here  the 
money  comes  to  me  on  a  platter.  Lord,  man,  I've 
got  to  take  it — risk  or  no  risk !" 

They  were  about  to  come  to  grips.  Peter  felt 
his  skin  turning  cold.  His  throat  went  dry  again, 
as  in  the  afternoon. 

"How  much" — he  asked,  outwardly  firmer  than 
he  would  have  dared  hope — "how  much  do  you 
need?" 

Zanin  really  started  now,  and  stared  at  him. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "I've  gone  pretty  far  in  with 
Silver  stone." 

"But  you  haven't  signed?" 

"No." 

"Nor  taken  his  money?" 

"No." 

Peter  laughed  shortly.  "Do  you  think  he  would 
consider  himself  bound  by  anything  you  may  have 
said !  Silverstone !" 

This  was  a  point.  He  could  see  Zanin  thinking 
it  over. 

"How  much  do  you  need?"  he  asked  again. 

"Well—" 


96  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"What  do  you  think  will  happen  the  minute  Sue 
really  discovers  the  sort  of  hands  she's  in?  Even 
if  she  would  want  to  stick  to  you!" 

This  was  another  point. 

"Well" — said  Zanin,  thinking  fast — "it  needn't 
be  lavish,  like  these  big  battle  films  and  such.  But 
it  will  take  money." 

"How  much  money  ?" 

"Three  or  four  thousand.  Maybe  five  or  six.  It 
means  going  south  for  the  outdoor  scenes.  I  want 
tropical  foliage,  so  my  people  won't  look  frozen. 
And  publicity  isn't  cheap,  you  know." 

Peter  gulped ;  but  plunged  on.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
you  do,  Zanin.  Get  another  man — a  littler  producer 
than  Silverstone — and  have  him  supply  studio,  op- 
erators, and  all  the  plant  necessary,  on  a  partner- 
ship basis,  you  to  put  in  some  part  of  the  cash 
needed." 

"Great!"  said  Zanin.  "Fine!  And  where's  the 
cash  to  come  from?" 

"From  me." 

The  front  legs  of  Zanin's  chair  came  to  the  floor 
with  a  bang. 

"This  is  new  stuff,  Mann." 

"New  stuff.     I'm  not  rich,  but  I  believe  you've 


THE  NATURE  FILM  PRODUCING  CO.     97 

got  a  big  thing  here,  and  I  stand  willing  to  put  up 
a  few  thousand  on  a  private  contract  with  you.  This 
can  be  just  between  ourselves.  All  I  ask  is  a  rea- 
sonable control  of  the  expenditure." 

Zanin  thought — and  thought.  Peter  could  see  the 
shifting  lights  in  his  cold  clear  eyes. 

He  moved  over  to  the  window  and  stared  out  into 
the  area-way,  where  electric  lamps  and  gas  flames 
twinkled  from  a  hundred  other  rear  buildings.  He 
came  back  to  his  chair  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"You're  on!"  he  finally  said.  "If  you  want  to 
know,  I  am  worried  about  Silverstone.  And  I'm 
certainly  in  no  position  to  turn  down  such  an  offer 
as  this." 

Which  was  the  genesis  of  The  Nature  Film  Pro- 
ducing Co.,  Inc.,  Jacob  Zanin,  Pres't.  They  talked 
late,  these  new  partners. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
Peter  limped  into  the  rooms. 

He  found  Hy  sitting  by  the  window  in  his  pa- 
jamas, gazing  rapturously  at  a  lacy  handerchief. 

"Aha!"  said  Hy,  "he  comes!  Never  mind  the 
hour,  my  boy!  I  take  off  my  hat.  You're  bettei* 
than  I  am — better  than  I !  A  soupqon  of  speed,  ol* 
dear!" 


98  THE  TRUFFLERS 

Peter  dropped  limply  into  the  Morris  chair. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Hy,  observing  him 
more  closely.  "You  look  done.  Where's  Sue  ?" 

Peter  composed  himself.  "I  left  Sue  a  long  while 
ago.  Hours  ago." 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Exactly  what  I  promised  you  I'd  do." 

This  was  a  new,  an  impressive  Peter. 

"I  don't  get  you—" 

"You  said  Sue  might  not  listen  to  my  warning." 

"Oh— and  she  didn't?" 

"She  did  not." 

"And  you — oh,  you  said  you'd  go  to  Zanin   .   .   ." 

"As  man  to  man,  Hy." 

"Good  lord,  you  haven't  .  .  .  Pete,  you're 
limping!  You  didn't  fight!  .  .  ."• 

Peter  solemnly  shook  his  head.  "It  wasn't  neces- 
sary, Hy/'  he  said  huskily;  then  cleared  his  throat. 
What  was  the  matter  with  his  throat  to-day,  any- 
way? 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair.   His  eyes  closed. 

Hy  leaned  forward  with  some  anxiety.  "Pete, 
what's  the  matter  ?  You're  white !" 

Peter's  head  moved  slowly.  "Nothing's  the  mat- 
ter." He  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  "It  has  been  a 
hard  day,  Hy,  but  the  job  is  done." 


THE  NATURE  FILM  PRODUCING  CO.     99 

"The  job   .    .    :?" 

"I  have  saved  her,  Hy." 

"But  the  pictures?" 

"They  will  be  taken  under  my  direction." 

"And  Silverstone?" 

"Silverstone  is  out.  I  control  the  company."  He 
closed  his  eyes  again  and  breathed  slowly  and  evenly 
in  a  deliberate  effort  to  calm  his  tumultuous  nerves. 

"Well!"  said  Hy,  big-eyed.     "Well!" 

"Something  to  drink,  Hy,"  Peter  murmured.  "I 
put  it  over,  Hy!  I  put  it  over!"  He  said  this  with 
a  little  more  vigor,  trying  to  talk  down  certain  sud- 
den misgivings  regarding  six  thin  little  books  with 
pasteboard  covers  that  lay  at  the  moment  in  the 
middle  drawer  of  the  desk,  next  the  wall. 

Hy  got  slowly  to  his  feet ;  stood  rubbing  his  head 
and  staring  down  in  complete  admiration  at  the  ap- 
parently triumphant  if  unmistakably  exhausted 
Peter. 

"It's  a  queer  time  for  them,"  Hy  remarked,  sol- 
emn himself  now.  "But  in  this  case  cocktails  are 
certainly  indicated." 

He  picked  up  the  telephone.  "John,"  he  said  to 
the  night  man  below,  "some  ice !" 

Then  he  shuffled  to  the  closet,  struck  a  match  and 
found  the  shaker. 


100  THE   TRUFFLERS 

In  the  amber  fluid  they  pledged  the  success  of  The 
Nature  Film  Producing  Co.,  Inc.,  these  Seventh- 
Story  Men!  Dwelling,  the  while,  each  in  his  own 
thoughts,  on  the  essential  nobility  of  sacrificing 
one's  self  to  save  another. 


CHAPTER  X 

PETER  THE   MAGNIFICENT 

"TF  she  strikes  you  as  a  girl  you'd  like  to  kiss,  I 
\  should  say,  as  a  general  principle — well,  kiss 
her." 

Thus  Hy  Lowe,  musingly,  seated  on  the  decrepit 
flat-top  desk  between  the  two  windows  of  the  studio, 
swinging  his  legs. 

Peter  Ericson  Mann  met  this  observation  with 
contempt.  "Right  off,  I  suppose!  First  time  you 
meet  her — just  like  that!" 

The  expert  waved  his  cigarette.  "Sure.  Kiss 
her." 

"She  murmurs  her  thanks,  doubtless." 

"Not  at  all.  She  hates  you.  .Won't  ever  speak 
to  you  again." 

"Oh,  really!"  Peter  was  caustic. 

"She  didn't  think  you  were  that  sort;  and  won't 
for  a  minute  permit  you  to  think  she's  that  sort." 

"And  then?" 

Another  wave  of  the  cigarette.  "Slow  down.  Be 
kind  to  her.  If  she's  a  cross  old  thing,  forgive 

101 


102  THE   TRUFFLERS 

her.  Let  her  see  that  you're  a  regular  fellow,  even 
if  you  did  start  from  third  base  instead  of  first. 
Above  all,  keep  cool.  Avoid  tragedy,  scenes.  Keep 
smiling.  When  she  does  swing  round — well,  you've 
kissed  her.  There  you  are!" 

Peter  surveyed  his  apartment  mate  with  gloomy 
eyes.  "Sue  and  Betty  are  two  very  different  girls," 
said  he. 

"My  son,"  replied  Hy,  "I  am  not  discussing  per- 
sons. I  am  enunciating  a  principle.  What  may  have 
passed  between  friend  Betty  and  me  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it."  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Though 
I'll  admit  she  is  expecting  me  around  this  evening. 
She  doesn't  hate  me,  Pete.  .  .  .  Funny  thing 
about  Betty — she  was  telling  me — there's  a  man  up 
in  her  town  pestering  her  to  death.  Letters  and  tele- 
grams. Wants  to  marry  her.  He  makes  gas  en- 
gines. Queer  about  these  small-town  fellows — they 
can't  understand  a  free-spirited  woman.  Imagine 
Betty  cooped  up  like  that !" 

"I'm  not  likely  to  be  kissing  Sue,"  growled  Peter. 

"My  son,  you've  as  good  as  done  it  already.  From 
your  own  admission.  Asked  her  to  marry  you. 
Right  off,  too — just  like  that!  Can't  you  see  it's 
the  same  thing  in  principle — shock  and  reaction! 
She'd  have  preferred  the  kiss  of  .course — " 


PETER   THE   MAGNIFICENT        103 

"You  don't  know  that?" 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Pete,  is  that  you  don't 
understand  women.  According  to  your  own  story 
again,  you  startled  her  so  that  she  left  you  on  a 
country  road  and  walked  ten  miles  alone  rather  than 
answer  you.  I  tell  you,  get  a  woman  real  angry  at 
you  just  once,  and  she  can't  be  indifferent  to  you 
as  long  as  she  lives.  Hate  you — yes.  Love  you — 
yes.  Indifferent — no.  .  .  .  You've  started  some- 
thing. Give  her  time." 

"Time!"  snorted  Peter.  "Time!"  He  paced  the 
long  room;  kicked  the  closet  door  shut;  gave  the 
piano  keys  a  savage  bang. 

Hy  watched  Peter  with  growing  concern.  His 
eyes  roved  about  the  smoke-dimmed,  high-ceiled 
studio.  They  had  lived  well  here — himself,  Peter 
and  the  Worm.  Thanks  to  some  unknown  law  of 
personality,  they  had  got  on,  this  odd  trio,  through 
the  years.  Girls  and  women  had  drifted  into  and 
out  of  their  individual  lives  (for  your  New  York 
bachelor  does  not  inhabit  a  vacuum) — but  never  be- 
fore had  the  specter  of  marriage  stalked  with  dis- 
ruptive import  through  these  dingy  rooms. 

"Look  here,  Pete,"  he  said,  "why  be  so  dam'  se- 
rious about  it !" 

Peter  paused  in  his  pacing  and  stared  at  Hy. 


104  THE   TRUFFLERS 

.  .  .  "Serious !"  He  repeated  the  word  under  his 
breath.  His  long  face  worked  convulsively  behind 
the  large  horn-rimmed  glasses  (not  spectacles)  and 
their  black  ribbon.  Then  abruptly  he  rushed  into 
the  bedroom  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

Hy  sighed,  glanced  out  at  the  weather  (it  was 
April),  picked  up  hat,  stick  and  gloves  and  saun- 
tered forth  to  dine  comfortably  at  his  club  as  a 
ritualistic  preliminary  to  a  pleasant  evening.  That, 
he  thought  now,  was  the  great  thing  about  bachelor 
life  in  town.  You  had  all  the  advantages  of  fem- 
inine companionship — in  assorted  varieties — and 
then  when  you  preferred  or  if  the  ladies  bored  you 
you  just  went  to  the  club. 

Peter  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  all  nerves,  and 

thought  about  Sue  Wilde.    Also  about  six  little  bank 
%  ,  % 

books. 

They  had  been  his  secret  inner  life,  the  bank 
books  locked  away  in  the  middle  drawer  of  the  desk 
on  the  side  next  the  wall.  Nearly  seven  thousand 
dollars  were  now  entered  in  those  books — Peter's 
all.  He  was  staking  it  on  a  single  throw.  He  had 
rushed  in  where  a  shrewder  theatrical  angel  might 
well  have  feared  to  tread.  It  was  the  wild  outbreak 
of  a  cautious  impractical  man. 

He  thought  it  all  over,  sitting  there  on  the  edge 


PETER    THE    MAGNIFICENT         105 

of  the  bed.  It  was  terrifying,  but  stirring.  In  his 
plays  some  one  was  always  saving  a  girl  through  an 
act  of  personal  sacrifice.  Now  he  was  acting  it  out 
in  life.  Indicating  the  truth  to  life  of  his  plays. 
.  .  .  He  was  risking  all.  But  so  had  Napoleon, 
returning  from  Elba,  risked  all  (he  did  not  pursue 
the  analogy) .  So  had  Henry  V  at  Agincourt.  After 
all,  considered  in  this  light,  it  was  rather  fine.  Cer- 
tain persons  would  admire  him  if  they  knew.  It 
was  the  way  big  men  did  things.  He  was  glad  that 
Sue  didn't  know;  it  was  finer  to  take  the  plunge 
without  so  much  as  asking  a  return.  It  was. mag- 
nificent. 

The  word,  popping  into  his  thoughts,  gave  Peter 
a  thrill.  Yes,  it  was  magnificent.  He  was  doing  a 
magnificent  thing.  All  that  remained  was  to  carry 
it  off  magnificently. 

He  dragged  his  trunk  from  the  closet.  The  lower 
tray  and  the  bottom  were  packed  with  photographs 
and  with  letters  tied  in  flat  bundles — letters  in  va- 
rious feminine  hands.  He  stirred  the  bundles  about. 
Some  were  old — years  old;  others  less  so. 

Peter  regarded  them  with  the  detachment  of  ex- 
altation. They  could  not  possibly  mean  anything 
to  him;  his  life  had  begun  the  day  he  first  saw  Sue 
Wilde. 


106  THE    TRUFFLERS 

He  carried  them  into  the  studio,  great  armsful, 
and  piled  them  about  the  hearth.  In  the  bottom 
drawer  of  the  bureau  were  other  packets  of  intimate 
documents.  He  brought  those  as  well.  Then  he 
set  to  work  to  burn,  packet  by  packet,  that  curiously 
remote  past  life  of  his.  And  he  smiled  a  little  at 
this  memory  and  that. 

Closely  packed  papers  do  not  burn  easily.  He 
was  seated  there  on  the  floor  before  the  fireplace, 
stirring  up  sheets  at  which  the  flames  had  nibbled, 
when  Jacob  Zanin  came  in. 

Zanin  stared  and  laughed. 

"Bad  as  that  ?"  said  he. 

Peter  met  this  sally  with  dignified  silence.  He 
urged  his  caller  to  sit  down. 

Zanin  dropped  his  hat  on  the  desk  and  disposed 
his  big  frame  in  the  Morris  chair.  His  coat  was 
wrinkled,  his  trousers  baggy.  Under  his  coat  was 
an  old  gray  sweater.  The  head  above  the  sweater 
collar  was  big  and  well-poised.  The  face  was  hard 
and  strong ;  the  eyes  were  alight  with  restlessness. 

"I'm  dog  tired,"  said  Zanin.  "Been  rehearsing 
six  hours  straight."  And  he  added :  "I  suppose  you 
haven't  had  a  chance  to  go  over  my  scenario." 

"I've  done  more  than  that,"  replied  Peter  calmly ; 
"I've  written  a  new  one."  And  as  Zanin's  brows 


PETER   THE    MAGNIFICENT        107 

came  down  questioningly  he  added :  "I  think  you'll 
find  I've  pointed  up  your  ideas.  The  thing  was  very 
strong.  Once  I  got  to  thinking  about  it  I  couldn't 
let  go.  .What  it  needed  was  clarifying  and  rearrang- 
ing and  building  for  climaxes.  That's  what  makes 
it  so  hard  for  our  people  to  understand  you  Rus- 
sians— you  are  formless,  chaotic." 

"Like  life,"  said  Zanin. 

"Perhaps.  But  not  like  our  stage  traditions.  You 
wanted  me  to  help  you  reach  a  popular  audience. 
That's  what  I'm  trying  to  do  for  you." 

"Fine!"  said  Zanin  doubtfully.  "Let  me  take  it 
along.  I'll  read  it  to-night — go  over  it  with  Sue, 
perhaps." 

Peter  shook  his  head. 

"But  I'll  have  to  see  it,  Mann." 

"I'll  read  it  to  you — to  you  and  Sue,"  said  Peter. 

Zanin  looked  at  him,  faintly  surprised  and  think- 
ing. 

Peter  went  back  to  the  hearth,  dropped  on  his 
knees  and  threw  another  bundle  of  letters  into  the 
fire. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Zanin,  hesitating,  "I  had  some 
work  planned  for  Sue  this  evening." 

"No  hurry,"  remarked  Peter. 

"Ah,  but  there  is."    Zanin  hitched  forward  in  his, 


108  THE   TRUFFLERS 

chair.    The  eager  hardness  came  again  into  his  eyes. 
His  strong,  slightly  husky  voice  rose  a  little. 

"Why?  How  so?"  Peter  settled  back  on  his 
heels  and  poked  the  fire. 

"Look  here,  Mann — everything's  just  right  for  us 
now.  I've  interested  the  Interstellar  people — that's 
partly  what  I  came  to  say — they'll  supply  studio 
stuff  for  the  interior  scenes  and  a  camera  man.  Also 
they'll  stand  a  third  of  the  expense.  They're  ready 
to  sign  whenever  you  are.  And  what's  more  im- 
portant— well,  here's  the  question  of  Sue." 

"What's  the  question?" 

"It's  delicate— but  I'll  be  frank." 

"Better  be.  You  and  I  are  going  into  this  as 
business  men,  Zanin." 

"Exactly.  As  business  men.  Well — Sue's  a  girl, 
after  all.  In  this  thing  we  are  staking  a  lot  on  her 
interest  and  enthusiasm. — pretty  nearly  everything." 

"Of  course. 

"Well,  she's  ready — eager.  I  know  her  pretty 
thoroughly,  Mann.  I've  studied  her.  We  have  no 
real  hold  on  her.  She  isn't  a  professional  actress, 
to  be  hired  at  so  much  a  week.  Her  only  reason  for 
going  into  it  at  all,  is  that  she  believes,  with  you 
and  me,  that  the  thing  ought  to  be  done.  Now  that's 
all  right.  It's  fine !  But  it's  going  to  take  delicate 


PETER    THE    MAGNIFICENT        109 

handling.  A  girl  acts  as  she  feels,  you  know.  Right 
now  Sue  feels  like  doing  my  Nature  film  with  all 
her  might."  He  spread  out  his  hands.  In  his  eyes 
was  an  eager  appeal.  "God,  Mann,  that's  all  we've 
got!  Don't  you  see?  Just  Sue's  feelings!" 

"I  see,"  Peter  replied.  He  threw  the  last  heap 
of  photographs  on  the  fire.  "But  what  was  the 
frank  thing?" 

Zanin  hesitated ;  drummed  nervously  on  the  chair- 
arm.  "I'm  coming  to  that.  It's  a  bit  awkward, 
Mann.  It's — well,  I  am  more  or  less  in  Sue's  con- 
fidence, you  know.  I'm  with  her  so  much,  I  can 
sense  her  moods.  .  .  .  The  fact  is,  Mann,  if  you'll 
let  me  say  so,  you  don't  seem  to  understand  women." 

"So  I've  been  told,"  remarked  Peter  dryly.  "Go 
on  with  it." 

"Well,  Sue's  got  it  into  her  head  that  you  don't 
get  the  idea  of  intelligent  radicalism.  That 
you're  .  .  ." 

"That  I'm  a  reactionary." 

"Yes — that  you're  a  reactionary.  She's  worried 
about  the  scenario — afraid  you'll  miss  the  very  point 
of  it."  Again  he  spread  out  his  large  strong  hands. 
"So  don't  you  see  why  I'm  eager  to  get  hold  of  it 
and  read  it  to  her" — he  hesitated  again,  and  knit 
his  brows — "so  I  can  reassure  her  .  .  .  You  see, 


110  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Mann,  Sue  just  doesn't  like  you.  That's  the  plain 
fact.  You've  hit  her  all  wrong."  He  raised  a  hand 
to  ward  off  Peter's  interruption.  "Oh,  we'll 
straighten  that  out  all  right !  But  it'll  take  delicate 
handling — just  now,  while  we're  working  out  the 
scenario  and  planning  the  trip  south — and  so,  mean- 
time .  .  ." 

"You  would  like  me  to  keep  out  of  Sue's  way  as 
much  as  possible." 

"And  leave  everything  to  me,  Mann.  As  it 
stands  now,  here  she  is,  keen,  all  ready,  once  she's 
solid  in  her  mind  about  the  right  spirit  of  the 
scenario,  to  start  south  with  me.  .  .  ." 

Peter  waved  the  poker  in  a  series  of  small  circles 
and  figure  eights ;  then  held  it  motionless  and  sighted 
along  it  with  squinted-up  eyes. 

"Why  go  south?"  he  asked. 

Zanin  gave  a  start  and  stared  at  him;  then  con- 
trolled himself,  for  the  expenses  of  that  little  trip, 
two-thirds  of  them,  at  least,  must  be  paid  out  of  the 
funds  entered  in  Peter's  six  little  bank  books. 

"Why  go  south?"  Zanin  repeated,  gropingly; 
then  came  back  at  Peter  with  a  rush  of  words. 
"Good  lord,  Mann,  don't  you  see  that  we're  putting 
over  a  big  piece  of  symbolism — the  most  delicate  and 
difficult  job  on  earth.  This  isn't  Shore  Acres!  It 


PETER    THE    MAGNIFICENT         111 

isn't  the  Doll's  House!  It's  a  realized  dream,  and 
it's  got  to  be  put  across  with  such  quality  and  power 
that  it  will  fire  a  new  dream  in  the  public  mind.  I 
propose  to  spring  right  out  at  'em,  startle  'em — 
yes,  shock  'em ;  and  all  the  time  keep  it  where  they 
can't  lay  their  vulgar  hands  on  it.  LWe  can't  show 
our  Nature  effects — primitive,  half-nude  people — • 
against  a  background  of  a  New  Jersey  farm  land 
with  a  chestnut  tree  and  a  couple  of  oaks  in  the  mid- 
dle distance !" 

"Pretty  fine  trees,  those !"  observed  Peter. 

"Not  for  a  minute!"  Zanin  sprang  to  his  feet; 
his  voice  rang.  "Got  to  be  remote,  exotic — dream 
quality,  fantasy  all  through.  Florida  or  California 
— palm  trees  and  such.  Damn  it,  the  thing's  a  poem ! 
It's  got  to  be  done  as  a  poem." 

He  strode  down  the  room  and  back. 

Peter  got  up,  very  calm,  rather  white  about  the 
mouth  and  watched  him.  .  .  .  Dream  quality? 
His  thoughts  were  woven  through  and  through  with 
it  at  this  moment.  A  voice  at  his  inner  ear,  a  voice 
curiously  like  Hy's,  was  murmuring  over  and  over : 
"Sure!  Kiss  her." 

"Don't  you  see?"  cried  Zanin,  confronting  him, 
and  spreading  out  those  big  hands.  Peter  wished 
wildly  that  he  would  keep  them  in  his  pockets,  put 


112  THE    TRUFFLERS 

them  behind  his  back — anything  to  get  them  out  of 
sight!  .  .  .  "Let's  be  sensible,  Mann.  As  you 
said,  we're  business  men,  you  and  I.  You  let  me 
take  the  scenario.  I'm  to  see  Sue  this  evening — I'll 
read  it  to  her.  I'm  sure  it's  good.  It'll  reassure 
her.  And  it  will  help  me  to  hold  her  enthusiasm 
and  pave  the  way  for  a  better  understanding  between 
her  and  you." 

Quite  unforeseen  by  either,  the  little  matter  of 
reading  the  scenario  had  struck  up  an  issue  between 
them.  All  was  not  harmony  within  the  directorate 
of  The  Nature  Film  Producing  Co.,  Inc.,  Jacob 
Zanin,  Pres't. 

"No,"  said  Peter.    "I  won't  let  you  have  it  now." 

"But— good  lord!— " 

"I  will  think  it  over."    Magnificent  was  the  word. 

Zanin  gulped  down  a  temperamental  explosion 
and  left. 

Peter,  as  tie  came  slowly  back  from  the  elevator 
to  the  apartment,  discovered  that  he  still  held  the 
poker  tightly  in  his  right  hand,  like  a  sword.  He 
thought  again  of  Napoleon  and  Henry  V. 

He  stood  motionless,  by  the  window,  staring  out ; 
moved  by  the  histrionic  emotionalism  that  was  al- 
most his  soul  to  stiffen  his  shoulders  like  a  king's. 
Out  there — beyond  old  Washington  Square  where 


PETER    THE    MAGNIFICENT        113 

the  first  bnds  of  spring  tipped  the  trees — beyond  the 
glimpse,  down  a  red-brick  vista  of  the  Sixth  Avenue 
Elevated — still  beyond  and  on,  were,  he  knew,  the 
dusty  wandering  streets,  the  crumbling  houses  with 
pasts,  the  flimsy  apartment  buildings  decorated  in 
front  with  rococo  fire  escapes,  the  bleak  little  three- 
cornered  parks,  the  devastating  subway  excavations 
of  Greenwich  Village.  Somewhere  in  that  welter 
of  poverty  and  art,  at  this  very  moment  (unless  she 
had  walked  up-town)  was  Sue  Wilde.  He  tried  to 
imagine  just  where.  Perhaps  in  the  dim  little  rear 
apartment  she  shared  with  Betty  Deane,  waiting  for 
Zanin. 

His  gaze  wandered  down  to  the  Square.  There 
was  Zanin,  crossing  it,  under  the  bare  trees. 

His  grip  on  the  poker  relaxed.  He  moved  toward 
the  telephone ;  glanced  out  again  at  the  swift-striding 
Zanin ;  then  with  dignity,  replaced  the  poker  by  the 
fireplace,  consulted  the  telephone  book  and  called  up 
Sue's  apartment. 

Sue  herself  answered. 

"This  is  Eric  Mann,"  he  told  her.  "I  want  very 
much  to  talk  with  you" — his  voice  was  none  too 
steady — "about  the  scenario." 

"Well" — over  the  wire  he  could  feel  her  hesita- 
tion— "if  it  is  important.  .  .  ." 


114  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"I  think  it  is." 

"Any  time,  almost,  then    .    .    ." 

"Are  you  busy  now?" 

"Why— no." 

"Perhaps  you'd  dine  with  me." 

"Why— all  right.    At  Jim's,  say." 

The  color  came  rushing  to  Peter's  face. 

"Right  away?"  he  suggested,  controlling  his  voice. 

"All  right.     I'll  meet  you  there." 

Peter  hung  up  the  receiver  and  smiled.  So  Zanin 
was  to  see  Sue  this  evening,  was  he?  "He'll  need 
a  telescope,"  mused  Peter  with  savage  joy  as  he 
hurried  out. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PROPINQUITY-PLUS 

HE  caught  tip  with  her  at  the  corner  nearest 
Jim's — the  same  Sue  he  had  first  met,  here 
in  the  Village,  on  a  curbstone,  eating  an  apple — 
wearing  her  old  tarn  o'shanter;  good  shoulders,  no 
hips,  well-shaped  hands  and  feet ;  odd,  honest  deep- 
green  eyes. 

She  was  a  wreck  from  endless  rehearsing  she  told 
him  smilingly  and  ordered  a  big  English  chop  and 
a  bigger  baked  potato.  These  were  good  at  Jim's. 
She  ate  them  like  a  hungry  boy. 

He  offered  her  with  inner  hesitation,  a  cigarette. 
She  shook  her  head.  "Zanin  won't  let  me,"  she  ex- 
plained. "He  says  it's  going  to  be  a  big  hard  job, 
coming  right  on  top  of  all  the  work  at  the  Cross- 
roads, and  I  must  keep  fit." 

Zanin!  Zanin!  .  .  .  But  Peter  maintained  his 
studied  calm.  "I've  got  the  scenario  in  my  pocket," 

115 


116  THE    TRUFFLERS 

he  announced,  "I  want  to  read  it  to  you.  And  if 
you  don't  mind  I'll  tell  you  just  why  I  want  to." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  said  she,  with  just  one 
half-covert  glance.  "Tell  me." 

"Please  hear  me  out,"  said  he. 

Her  lids  did  droop  a  little  now.  This  was  the 
Eric  Mann  whose  plays  she  had  seen  in  past  years 
and  who  had  pounced  on  her  so  suddenly  with  a 
crazy  avowal  of  love.  ...  A  man  she  hardly 
knew! 

He  spoke  quietly  now  and  patiently;  even  with 
dignity. 

"We — you  and  Zanin  and  I — are  starting  a  serious 
job." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Well,  I  began  all  wrong  by  taking  a  personal  atti- 
tude toward  you,  and  we  quarreled  rather  ab- 
surdly .  .  ." 

"We  won't  speak  of  that,"  said  she. 

"Only  to  this  extent :  Any  little  personal  misun- 
derstandings— well,  we've  got  to  be  businesslike 
and  frank.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you.  This  afternoon — 
just  now,  in  fact — when  I  suggested  to  Zanin  that 
I  read  it  to  the  two  of  you,  he  objected.  In  fact  he 
told  me  in  so  many  words  that  you  disliked  me  and 
didn't  trust  my  understanding  and  that  it  would  be 


PROPINQUITY-PLUS  117. 

necessary  for  him  to  act  as  a  buffer  between  you 
and  me." 

"Oh,"  said  she  quickly,  "that's  absurd,  of  course !" 

"Of  course.  He  rather  insisted  on  taking  the 
scenario  and  reading  it  to  you  himself.  Now  that 
won't  do." 

"I  don't  care  who  reads  it  to  me,"  said  Sue  coolly. 

"Certainly  not.  Now,  if  you'll  agree  with  me 
that  there's  nothing  personal  between  us,  that  we're 
just  whole-hearted  workmen  on  a  job,  I  ..." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  a  little,  waiting. 

".  .  .1  came  here  with  the  idea  of  asking  you 
to  hunt  Zanin  up  with  me — making  it  a  matter  of 
company  business,  right  now." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  her  independent  spirit  stirred,  "I 
don't  see  that  that's  necessary.  Why  don't  you  go 
ahead — just  read  it  to  me?"  She  looked  about  the 
smoky  busy  room.  "But  it's  noisy  here.  And  peo- 
ple you  know  come  in  and  want  to  talk.  I'd  ask 
you  around  to  the  rooms,  only  ..." 

"Only,  Hy  Lowe  will  be  there."  Peter,  feeling 
new  ground  under  his  feet,  smiled. 

Sue  smiled  a  little  herself. 

"How  about  your  place?"  she  asked  them. 

The  question  took  Peter's  breath.  She  said  it  in 
unmistakable  good  faith,  like  a  man.  But  never, 


118  THE   TRUFFLERS 

never,  in  Peter's  whole  adult  life,  had  a  woman 
paid  such  a  thing  to  him.  That  women  came  occa- 
sionally into  the  old  bachelor  apartment  building,  he 
knew.  But  the  implications !  What  would  Hamer- 
ton,  across  the  hall,  think  of  him  were  he  to  meet 
them  together  in  the  elevator?  .What  would  John 
the  night  man  think  ?  Above  all  (this  thought  came 
second)  what  would  they  think  of  Sue? 

"Oh,"  observed  Sue,  with  real  good  humor,  "I  re- 
member! That's  the  building  where  women  callers 
can't  stay  after  eleven  at  night." 

Peter  nearly  succeeded  in  fighting  back  the  flush 
that  came. 

"Which,"  Sue  continued,  "has  always  seemed  to 
me  the  final  comment  on  conventional  morality.  It's 
the  best  bit  of  perfectly  unconscious  humor  in  New 
York." 

Peter  was  thinking — in  flashes  and  leaps,  like  Na- 
poleon— startled  by  his  own  daring,  yet  athrill  with 
new  determination.  tThe  Worm  was  out  of  town; 
Hy  very  much  engaged.  .  .  .  Besides,  Sue  was 
honest  and  right.  This  was  the  sincere  note  in  the 
New  Russianism.  Being  yourself,  straight-out.  He 
must  rise  to  it,  now  or  never,  if  he  was  not  to  lose 
Sue  for  good. 

So  he  smiled.    "It's  only  eight,"  he  said.    "I  can 


PROPINQUITY-PLUS  1 19 

read  you  the  whole  thing  and  we  can  discuss  it 
within  a  couple  of  hours.  And  we  won't  be  inter- 
rupted there." 

Walking  straight  into  that  building  with  Sue  at 
his  side,  nodding  with  his  usual  casual  friendliness 
to  John  the  night  man,  chatting  while  the  elevator 
crawled  endlessly  upward  to  the  seventh  floor,  over- 
coming the  impulse  to  run  past  the  doors  of  the1  other 
apartments,  carrying  it  all  off  with  easy  sophistica- 
tion ;  this  was  unquestionably  the  bravest  single  act 
in  the  whole  life  of  Peter  Ericson  Mann. 

Peter  could  be  a  pleasant  host.  He  lighted  the 
old  gas-burning  student  lamp  on  the  desk ;  started  a 
fire ;  threw  all  the  cushions  in  one  large  pile  on  the 
couch. 

Sue  threw  aside  her  coat  and  tam  o'shanter, 
smoothed  her  hair  a  little,  then  curled  up  on  the 
couch  with  her  feet  under  her  where  she  could  watch 
the  fire;  and  where  (as  it  happened)1  the  firelight 
played  softly  on  her  alert  face.  She  filled  the  dingy 
old  room  with  a  new  and  very  human  warmth. 

Peter  settled  back  in  the  Morris  chair  and  after 
one  long  look  at  her  plunged  with  a  sudden  fever  of 
energy  into  the  reading  of  the  scenario. 

It  was  the  thing  Peter  did  best.  He  read  rap- 
idly; moved  forward  in  his  chair  and  gestured  now 


120  THE   TRUFFLERS 

and  then  for  emphasis  with  his  long  hands ;  threw 
more  than  a  little  sense  of  movement  and  power 
into  it. 

Sue  listened  rather  idly  at  first;  then,  as  Peter's 
trained,  nicely  modulated  voice  swept  on,  lifted  her 
head,  leaned  forward,  watched  his  face.  Peter  felt 
her  gaze  but  dared  not  return  it.  Once  he  stopped, 
flushed  and  hoarse,  and  telephoned  down  for  ice- 
water.  Those  eyes,  all  alight,  followed  him  as  he 
rushed  past  her  to  the  door  and  returned  with  the 
clinking  water  pitcher.  He  snatched  up  the  manu- 
script and  finished  it — nearly  half  an  hour  of  it — 
standing.  Then  he  threw  it  on  the  desk  with  a  noise 
that  made  Sue  jump,  and  himself  strode  to  the  fire- 
place and  stood  there,  mopping  his  face,  still  avoid- 
ing her  eyes.  She  was  still  leaning  eagerly  forward. 

"Well,"  said  he  now,  writh  a  rather  weak  effort 
at  casualness,  "what  do  you  think  of  it?  Of  course 
it's  a  rough  draft — " 

"Of  course  it  is  no  such  thing,"  said  she. 

She  got  up ;  moved  to  the  table ;  took  up  the  manu- 
script and  turned  the  first  pages.  Then  she  came  to 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth  with  it. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is — How  did  you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  Zanin's  ideas,  of  course ;  but  they  needed 
rearranging  and  pointing  up." 


PROPINQUITY-PLUS  121 

"This  isn't  a  rearrangement,"  said  she;  and  now 
he  awoke  to  consciousness  of  the  suppressed  stirring 
quality  in  her  voice,  a  quality  he  had  not  heard  in 
it  before.  "It  isn't  a  rearrangement.  It's  a  created 
thing." 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "you  really  think  that!" 

"It  carries  the  -big  idea.  It's  the  very  spirit  of 
freedom.  It's  a — a  sort  of  battle-cry — "  She  gave 
a  little  laugh — "Of  course  it  isn't  that,  exactly;  it's 
really  a  big  vital  drama.  I'm  talking  rather  wildly. 
But — "  She  confronted  him;  he  looked  past  her 
hair  at  the  wall.  She  stamped  her  foot.  "Don't 
make  me  go  on  saying  these  inane  things,  please! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  you've  done." 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"You've  stated  our  faith  with  a  force  and  a  fine- 
ness that  Zanin,  even,  could  never  get.  You've  said 
it  all  for  us.  ...  Oh,  I  owe  you  an  apology! 
Zanin  told  you  part  of  the  truth.  I  didn't  dream — 
from  your  plays  and  things  you  have  said — that  you 
could  do  this." 

Peter  looked  at  her  now  with  breathless  solemnity. 

"I've  changed,"  he  said. 

"Something  has  happened." 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  changing." 

She  smiled. 


122  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Or  of  growing,  even." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  she.  "But  listen!  You 
don't  know  what  you've  done.  Do  you  suppose 
I've  been  looking  forward  to  this  job — making  my- 
self sensationally  conspicuous,  working  with  com- 
mercial-minded people  ?  Oh,  how  I've  dreaded  that 
side  of  it!  And  worrying  all  the  time  because  the 
scenario  wasn't  good.  It  just  wasn't.  It  wasn't 
real  people,  feeling  and  living;  it  was  ideas — noth- 
ing but  ideas — stalking  around.  That's  Zanin,  of 
course.  He's  a  big  man.  He  has  got  the  ideas,  but 
he  hasn't  got  people,  quite;  he  just  doesn't  under- 
stand women,  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,"  she  threw 
out  her  hands — "the  only  reason,  the  only  excuse, 
really,  for  going  through  with  this  ordeal  is  to  help 
make  people  everywhere  understand  Truth.  And 
I've  known — it's  been  discouraging — that  we 
couldn't  possibly  do  that  unless  it  was  clearly  ex- 
pressed for  us.  ...  Now  do  you  see  what  you've 
done?  It's  that!  And  it's  pretty  exciting." 

"Zanin  may  not  take  it  this  way." 

"Oh,  he  will !  He'll  have  to.  It  means  so  much 
to  him.  That  man  has  lost  everything  at  the  Cross- 
roads, you  know.  And  now  he  is  staking  all  he  has 
left — his  intelligence,  his  strength,  his  courage,  on 
this.  It  means  literally  everything  to  him." 


PROPINQUITY-PLUS  123 

Peter  stared  at  her.  "And  what  do  you  suppose 
it  means  to  me !" 

"Why — I  don't  know,  of  course.    .    .    ." 

Peter  strode  to  the  desk,  unlocked  the  middle 
drawer  next  the  wall,  drew  out  the  six  little  bank 
books,  and  almost  threw  them  into  her  lap. 

"Look  at  those,"  he  said— "all  of  them!" 

"Why — "  she  hesitated. 

"Go  through  them,  please !   Add  them  up." 

Half  smiling,  she  did  so.  Then  said :  "It  seems 
to  come  to  almost  seven  thousand  dollars." 

"That's  the  money  that's  going  to  work  out  your 
dream." 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  then  down  at  the  books. 

"It's  all  I've  got  in  the  world— all— all !  That, 
and  the  three  per  cent,  it  brings  in.  My  play — they're 
going  to  produce  it  in  the  fall.  You  won't  like  it. 
It's  the  old  ideas,  the  old  Broadway  stuff." 

"But  you've  changed." 

"Yes.  Since  I  wrote  it.  It  doesn't  matter.  It 
may  bring  money,  it  may  not.  Likely  not.  Ninety 
per  cent,  of  'em  fail,  you  know.  This  is  all  I've  got 
• — every  cent.  All  my  energy  and  what  courage  I've 
got  goes  after  it — into  The  Nature  Film  Producing 
Company.  Please  understand  that !  I'm  leading  up 
to  something." 


124  THE   JRUFFLERS 

She  looked  a  thought  disturbed.    He  rushed  on. 

"Zanin's  got  it  into  his  head  that  he's  going  to 
take  you  south  to  do  all  the  outdoor  scenes." 

"I  haven't  agreed  to  that.  He  feels  that  it's  nec- 
essary/' 

"Yes,  he  does.  He's  sincere  enough.  Remember, 
I'm  talking  impersonally.  As  I  told  you,  we've  got 
to  -be  businesslike — and  frank.  We've  got  to !" 

"Of  course,"  said  she. 

"I'm  beginning  to  see  that  Zanin  is  just  as  much 
of  a  hero  with  other  people's  money  as  he  is  with 
his  own." 

"That  goes  with  the  temperament,  I  suppose." 

"Undoubtedly.  But  now,  see!  That  trip  south 
— taking  actors  and  camera  man  and  outfit — staying 
around  at  hotels — railway  fares — it  will  cost  a  for- 
tune." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  very  grave,  "I  hadn't  realized 
that." 

"If  we  can  just  keep  our  heads — more  carefully — 
spend  the  money  where  it  will  really  show  on  the 
film — don't  you  see,  we  can  swing  it,  and  when 
we've  done  it,  it  won't  belong  to  the  Interstellar  peo- 
ple— or  to  Silverstone ;  it'll  be  ours.  And  that  means 
it'll  be  what  we — you — want  it  to  be  and  not  some- 
thing vulgar  and — and  nasty.  The  other  way,  if 


PROPINQUITY-PLUS  125 

we  give  Zanin  his  head  and  begin  spending  money 
magnificently,  we'll  run  out,  and  then  the  price  of  a 
little  more  money,  if  we  can  get  it  at  all,  will  be  the 
control." 

He  reached  down  for  the  books,  threw  them  back 
into  the  drawer,  slammed  it  and  locked  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that's  all  I've  got.  I  pledge  it 
all,  here  and  now,  to  the  dream  you've  dreamed. 
All  I  ask  is,  keep  in  mind  what  may  happen  when 
it's  gone." 

She  rose  now;  stood  thinking;  then  drew  on  her 
tarn  o'shanter  and  reached  for  her  coat. 

"Let  me  think  this  over,"  she  said  soberly. 

"We  must  be  businesslike,"  said  he.  "Imper- 
sonal." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  and  stepped  over  to  the  fire,  low- 
burning  now  with  a  mass  of  red  coals. 

Peter's  eyes,  deep,  gloomy  behind  the  big  glasses, 
followed  her.  He  came  slowly  and  stood  by  her. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said  gently.  "It'll  be  eleven 
first  thing  we  know.  It  would  be  a  bit  too  amusing 
to  be  put  out." 

They  lingered. 

Then  Peter  found  himself  lifting  his  arms.  He 
tried  to  keep  them  down,  but  up,  up  they  came — 
very  slowly,  he  thought. 


126  THE   TRUFFLERS 

He  caught  her  shoulders,  swung  her  around,  drew 
her  close.  It  seemed  tovhim  afterward,  during  one 
of  the  thousand  efforts  he  made  to  construct  a  men- 
tal picture  of  the  scene,  that  she  must  have  been  re- 
sisting him  and  that  he  must  have  been  using  his 
strength;  but  if  this  was  so  it  made  no  difference. 
Her  head  was  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  He  bent 
down,  drew  her  head  up,  kissed,  as  it  happened, 
her  nose;  forced  her  face  about  and  at  the  second 
effort  kissed  her  lips.  If  she  was  struggling — and 
Peter  will  never  be  quite  clear  on  that  point — she 
was  unable  to  resist  him.  He  kissed  her  again. 
And  then  again.  A  triumphant  fury  was  upon  him. 

But  suddenly  it  passed.  He  almost  pushed  her 
away  from  him;  left  her  standing,  limp  and  breath- 
less, by  the  mantel,  while  he  threw  himself  on  the 
couch  and  plunged  his  face  into  his  hands. 

"You'll  hate  me,"  he  groaned.  "You  won't  ever 
speak  to  me  again.  You'll  think  I'm  that  sort  of 
man,  and  you'll  be  right  in  thinking  so.  What's 
worse,  you'll  believe  I  thought  you  were  the  sort 
to  let  me  do  it.  And  all  the  time  I  love  you  more 
than —  Oh  God,  what  made  me  do  it !  What  could 
I  have  been  thinking  of !  I  was  mad !" 

Then  the  room  was  still. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    MOMENT   AFTER 

PETER  tried  to  think.  He  could  not  lie  there 
indefinitely  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  But  he 
couldn't  think.  His  mind  had  stopped  running. 
...  At  last  he  must  face  her.  He  remembered 
Napoleon.  Slowly  he  lifted  his  head;  got  up. 

She  had  seated  herself  on  an  arm  of  the  Morris 
chair,  taken  off  her  tam  o'shanter  and  was  run- 
ning her  fingers  through  her  rumpled  short  hair. 
She  did  not  look  at  him.  After  a  moment  she  put 
the  tam  o'shanter  on  again,  but  did  not  instantly  get 
up;  instead,  reached  out  and  drew  the  manuscript 
toward  her. 

Peter  stood  over  the  fire. 

"Is  it  any  good  saying  I'm  sorry,"  he  began  .   .  . 

"Please  don't  talk  about  it,"  said  she. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Peter,  helpless,  tried 
and  tried  to  think.  .  .  .  Hy  had  brought  him  to 
this.  In  his  heart  he  cursed  Hy. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Sue,  fingering  the  man- 

127 


128  THE   TRUFFLERS 

uscript;  then  suddenly  turning  and  facing  him — 
"you  and  I  can't  do  this  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  he  cried  eagerly. 

"If  there's  going  to  be  emotional  tension  be- 
tween us,  why — it's  going  to  be  hard  to  do  the 
w*ork."  She  took  the  manuscript  up  now  and 
looked  thoughtfully  from  page  to  page.  "As  I  see 
the  situation — if  I  see  it  at  all — it's  like  this:  You 
have  solved  our  problem.  Splendidly.  There's  our 
play.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  you  are  giving  all  you 
have.  We've  got  to  work  hard.  More,  we've  got 
to  cooperate,  very  finely  and  earnestly.  But  we've 
got  to  be  impersonal,  businesslike.  We've  simply 
got  to." 

"I  know  it,"  said  he  ruefully. 

"So,  if  our  wires — yours  and  mine — are  going 
to  get  crossed  like — like  this,  well,  you  and  I  just 
mustn't  see  each  other,  that's  all." 

"Of  course,"  said  he. 

"It's  too  bad.  When  you  were  reading  the  sce- 
nario, and  I  saw  what  power  and  life  you  have  put 
into  it,  I  thought  it  would  be  particularly  interest- 
ing to  have  you  coach  me.  You  could  help  me  so. 
But  it  is  something,  at  least — "  she  threw  out  her 
arms  again  with  the  gesture  that  he  was  sure  he 
would  associate  with  her  as  long  as  he  lived — as  he 


THE   MOMENT    AFTER  129 

would  remember  the  picture  she  made,  seated  there 
on  an  arm  of  the  Morris  chair,  in  his  rooms.  .  .  . 

His  rooms !  How  often  in  his  plays  had  he  based 
his  big  scene  on  Her  visit  to  His  Rooms!  And 
how  very,  very  different  all  those  scenes  had  been 
from  this.  He  was  bewildered,  trying  to  follow  her 
extraordinarily  calm  survey  of  the  situation. 

She  was  talking  on.  " — it  is  something  at  least 
to  know  that  you  have  been  able  to  do  this  for  us." 

She  slipped  off  the  arm  of  the  chair  now  and 
stood  before  him — flushed,  but  calm  enough — and 
extended  her  hand. 

"The  best  way,  I  think,"  she  said,  "is  for  you  not 
to  see  much  of  me  just  now.  That  won't  inter- 
fere with  work  at  rehearsals,  of  course.  If  there's 
something  you  want  to  tell  me  about  the  part,  you 
can  drop  me  a  line  or  call  me  up." 

Peter  took  her  hand,  clasped  it  for  a  moment,  let 
it  fall. 

She  moved  deliberately  to  the  door.  He  fol- 
lowed her. 

"But—"  said  Peter  huskily— "but,  wouldn't  I 
better  walk  home  with  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  she,  momentarily  compressing  her 
lips.  "No!  Better  not!  The  time  to  start  being 
businesslike  is  right  now.  Don't  you  see?" 


130  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"Yes,"  he  murmured.  "You  are  right,  of  course." 

The  telephone  bell  rang. 

"Just  a  moment,"  said  Peter. 

And  Sue  waited,  by  the  door. 

Peter  took  up  the  receiver.  She  heard  him  stam- 
mer— 

"Oh — oh,  all  right — eleven  o'clock — all  right." 

"There,"  said  she,  laughing  a  little.  "It  has  hap- 
pened, you  see !  I'm  being  put  out." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Sue." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter !    It's  just  amusing." 

"But  I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen — " 

His  voice  trailed  off. 

"Good  night,"  said  she  again. 

"Good  night,  Sue.  You  are  treating  me  better 
than  I  deserve." 

"We  won't  talk  any  more  about  it.    Good  night." 

She  tried  to  turn  the  catch  on  the  lock.  He 
reached  out  to  help.  His  hand  closed  over  hers. 
He  turned;  his  eyes  met  hers;  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  again. 

They  moved  slowly  back  toward  the  fire. 

"Peter — please !"  she  murmured.    "It  won't  do." 

"Oh,  Sue— Sue !"  he  groaned.  "If  we  feel  this 
way,  why  not  marry  and  make  a  good  job  of  it?" 


THE    MOMENT    AFTER  131 

Peter  said  this  as  she  might  have  said  it — all  direct- 
ness, matter-of-fact.  "I  wouldn't  stop  you,  Sue. 
I  wouldn't  ever  dominate  you  or  take  you  for 
granted.  I'd  live  for  you,  Sue." 

"I  know."  She  caught  her  breath  and  moved 
away  from  him.  "You  wouldn't  stop  me,  but  mar- 
riage and  life  would.  No,  Peter;  not  now.  Mar- 
riage isn't  on  my  calendar.  .  .  .  And,  Peter, 
please  don't  make  love  to  me.  I  don't  want  you 
to." 

Peter  moved  away,  too,  at  this. 

"Look  here,  Sue,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  rather  roughly,  "you  go.  We  won't  shake 
hands  again.  Just  go.  Right  now.  I  promise  I 
won't  bother  you.  And  we — we'll  put  the  play 
through — put  it  through  right." 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  again,  with  a  light  in  them. 

A  slow  smile  was  coming  to  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"Oh,  Peter,"  she  said  very  gently,  "don't  you — 
when  you  say  that — you  make  me — " 

"Please — please  go !"  cried  Peter. 

The  telephone  rang. 

"I'll  think  over  the  matter  of  the  trip  south/' 
said  she,  "and — " 


132  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Sue,  I  want  you  to  go !" 

" — and  let  you  know1.  I'm  not  sure  but  what 
you're  right.  If  we  can  do  it  up  here  .  .  ." 

"Good  God,  Sue!    Please!    Please!" 

She  moved  slowly  toward  the  door,  turned  the 
catch  herself,  then  glanced  hesitatingly  back. 

Peter  was  standing  rigidly  before  the  fire,  star- 
ing into  it.  He  had  picked  up  the  poker  and  was 
holding  it  stiffly  in  his  right  hand. 

She  did  not  know  that  the  man  standing  there 
was  not  Peter  at  all,  but  a  very  famous  personage, 
shorter  than  Peter,  and  stouter,  whose  name  had 
rung  resoundingly  down  the  slope  of  a  hundred 
years. 

He  would  not  turn.    So  she  went  out. 


CHAPTER  .XIII 

TWO    GIRLS    OF    THE   VILLAGE 

IT  is  not  a  simple  matter  to  record  in  any  detail 
the  violent  emotional  reaction  through  which 
Peter  now  passed.     Peter  had  the  gift  of  creative 
imagination,  the  egotism  to  drive  it  far,  and,  for 
background,  the  character  of  a  theatrical  chameleon. 
Of  these  qualities,  I  have  always  believed  that  the 
egotism  predominated.     He  could  appear  dignified, 
.even  distinguished;  he  could  also  appear  excitable, 
ungoverned.    Either  would  be  Peter. 

Nothing  that  had  happened  hitherto  in  his  life 
had  excited  him  as  had  the  events  of  this  evening. 
The  excitement  was,  indeed,  greater  than  he  could 
bear.  It  set  his  imagination  blazing,  and  there  was 
among  Peter's  intricate  emotional  processes  no  hose 
of  common  sense  adequate  to  the  task  of  subduing 
the  flames.  He  stood,  breathless,  quivering,  at  the 
window,  looking  out  over  the  dim  Square,  exulting 
to  the  point  of  nervous  exhaustion.  He  walked  the 
floor.  He  laughed  aloud.  Finally,  his  spirit  went 
on  around  the  emotional  circle  through  a  high  point 

133 


134  THE    TRUFFLERS 

of  crazy  happiness  to  an  equally  crazy  despondency. 
More  time  passed.  The  despondency  deepened.  She 
had  made  stipulations.  He  was  not  to  see  her  again. 
If  it  should  be  necessary  to  communicate,  he  was  to 
write.  She  had  been  kind  about  it,  but  that  was 
what  she  had  said.  Yes,  she  had  been  kind,  but  her 
reaction  would  come  as  his  had.  She  would  hate 
him.  Necessarily.  Hy  was  to  that  extent  right. 

He  sat  on  the  couch  (where  she  had  sat),  held 
the  paper  in  shaking  hands  and  stared  wildly  into 
the  dying  fire.  Thoughts,  pictures,  were  now  rac- 
ing through  his  mind,  in  a  mad  tangle,  hopelessly 
confused.  One  notion  he  laid  hold  of  as  it  went 
by  ...  She  had  been  his  guest — here  in  his 
rooms.  She  had  trusted  herself  with  him.  He  had 
violated  the  trust.  If  he  permitted  a  man  to  do 
such  a  thing  in  one  of  his  plays,  it  would  be  for  the 
purpose  of  exhibiting  that  man  as  a  cad  at  least 
— probably  as  a  villain.  The  inference  was  clear. 
Any  audience  that  Peter  was  capable  of  mentally 
projecting  would  instantly,  automatically,  accept 
him  as  such.  Peter  himself  knew  no  other  attitude. 
And  now  to  find  himself  guilty  of  this  very  act 
brought  the  final  bewilderment. 

So  he,  Peter,  was  a  cad  at  least — perhaps  a  vil- 
lain. 


TWO    GIRLS    OF    THE   VILLAGE     135 

And  then,  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  his  reaction,  his 
imagination  set  to  work  building  up  grotesque  plans 
for  a  new  different  life.  All  these  plans  were  out 
of  the  conventional  stuff  of  his  plays;  all  were  the- 
atrical. They  had  to  do  with  self-effacement  and 
sacrifice,  with  expiation,  with  true  nobility.  There 
was  a  moment  when  he  considered  self-destruction. 
If  you  think  this  wholly  fantastic,  I  can  only  say 
that  it  was  Peter.  Another  notion  was  of  turning 
explorer,  becoming  a  world's  rough  hand,  of  meet- 
ing hardship  and  privation.  He  pictured  himself 
writing  Sue  manly  letters,  once  a  year,  say.  He 
would  live  then  in  her  memory  not  as  a  cad  or  vil- 
lain, but  (perhaps)  as  a  man  who  had  been  broken 
by  a  great  love.  Then,  in  reminiscent  moments,  as 
when  she  saw  a  log  fire  burning  low,  she  would 
think  tenderly  of  him.  She  might  even  sigh.  .  .  . 
And  he  tried  to  think  out  acceptable  devices  for  leav- 
ing his  money  in  her  hands.  For  he  must  see  the 
Nature  Film  through. 

He  had  just  finished  deciding  this  when  Hy  Lowe 
came. 

Had  Peter  been  less  preoccupied,  he  would  have 
noted  that  Hy  was  unusually  silent.  As  it  was, 
conscious  only  that  the  atmosphere  of  magical  mel- 
ancholy had  been  shattered  when  the  door  opened, 


136  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Peter  undressed,  put  out  the  gas  lamp  and  went  to 
bed,  his  bed  being  the  very  couch  on  which  she  had 
curled  up  while  he  read  the  scenario.  He  knew 
that  sleep  would  be  impossible,  but  he  felt  that  he 
should  make  every  possible  effort  to  control  him- 
self. Hy  was  fussing  about  in  the  bedroom. 

After  a  while — a  long  while — he  heard  Hy  come 
tiptoeing  into  the  room  and  stand  motionless. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want !"  cried  Peter,  start- 
ing up,  all  nerves. 

"Just  wanted  to  make  sure  you  weren't  asleep." 
And  Hy  chuckled  breathlessly. 

"Quit  your  cackling!    What  do  you  want?" 

"Let  me  sit  down,  Pete.  Damn  it.  I've  got  to 
talk — to  somebody.  Pete,  I'm  crazy.  I'm  delirious. 
Never  mind  what  I  say.  Oh,  my  boy.  My  boy, 
you  don't  know — you  can't  imagine!  .  .  .  She's 
the  darling  of  the  gods,  Peter!  The  absolute  dar- 
ling of  the  absolute  gods !" 

.  "Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  come  drivel- 
ing all  over  my  room  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"Wait,  Pete — serious  now.  You've  got  to  stand 
by  me  in  this.  The  way  I've  stood  by  you  once  or 
twice.  To-day  was  Friday,  wasn't  it?  Or  am  I 
crazy?" 

"Both." 


TWO    GIRLS    OF   THE   VILLAGE     137 

"Then  it's  to-morrow !  I'm  just  trying  to  believe 
it,  Pete,  that's  all." 

"Believe  what?" 

"Look  here — you've  got  to  know,  and  protect  me 
if  any  unexpected  thing  should  come  up.  We're 
going  on  a  little  trip,  Peter."  Hy  was  solemn  now, 
but  his  voice  was  uncertain.  "Betty  and  I,  Pete. 
To-morrow.  On  the  night  boat." 

Peter  was  silent.  Hy  stood  there  for  what 
seemed  rather  a  long  time,  then  suddenly  bolted 
back  into  the  bedroom.  In  the  morning  he  was  less 
expansive,  merely  asking  Peter  to  respect  his  confi- 
dence. Which  request  Peter  gloomily  resented  as 
he  resented  Hy's  luck.  The  fortunate  young  man 
then  packed  a  hand-bag  and  hurried  off  to  breakfast 
at  the  club. 

Peter  tried  to  work  on  an  empty  stomach,  but  the 
effort  gave  him  a  headache,  so  he  made  himself  a 
cup  of  .coffee. 

He  walked  the  streets  for  a  while  with  increasing 
restlessness;  then,  to  soothe  his  nerves,  went  to 
the  club  and  listlessly  read  the  magazines.  At  noon 
he  avoided  his  friends,  but  managed  to  eat  a  small 
luncheon.  At  two  o'clock  he  went  out  aimlessly  and 
entered  the  nearest  moving-picture  theater.  At  five 
he  wandered  back  to  the  club  and  furtively  asked 


138  THE   TRUFFLERS 

the  telephone  boy  if  there  had  been  any  messages 
for  him.  There  had  not. 

He  permitted  himself  to  be  drawn  into  a  riotous 
game  of  Kelly  pool.  Also  he  permitted  himself  a 
drink  or  two. 

During  the  evening,  I  regret  to  note,  he  got  him- 
self rather  drunk  and  went  home  in  a  taxicab.  This 
was  unusual  with  Peter  and  not  successful.  It  in- 
tensified his  self-consciousness  and  his  sorrow,  made 
him  even  gloomier.  But  it  did  help  him  to  sleep. 

He  was  awakened,  just  before  nine  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning,  by  the  banging  of  a  door.  Then 
Hy,  dusty,  bedraggled,  haggard  of  face,  rushed  in 
and  stared  at  him. 

Peter  decided  it  was  a  dream  and  rolled  over. 

Hy  shook  him.  "For  God's  sake,  Pete !"  he  cried. 
How  hoarse  he  was!  "Where  is  she?  Have  you 
heard  anything?" 

Peter  was  coming  awake. 

"God,  Pete,  I'm  crazy !  Don't  you  understand — 
She  wasn't  on  the  boat.  Must  have  got  the  wrong 
one.  Oh,  it's  awful!  ...  I  walked  that  deck 
nearly  all  night — got  off  way  up  the  river  and  came 
back  to  New  York  with  the  milk  cans.  Something 
terrible  may  have  happened." 

Peter  sat  up. 


TWO    GIRLS    OF.   THE   VILLAGE     139 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  tousled 
head,  "that  I  remember  something  —  last  night  —  " 

Hy  waited,  panting. 

"Look  on  the  desk.  Didn't  I  bring  up  a  note  or 
something  and  lay  it  there?" 

Hy  was  on  the  desk  like  a  panther.  There  was 
a  note.  He  tore  it  open,  then  thrust  it  into  Peter's 
hands,  crying  hoarsely,  "Read  it!"  —  and  dropped, 
a  limp,  dirt-streaked  wreck  of  a  man,  into  the  Mor- 
ris chair. 

was  the  note  : 


"Henry,  I'm  not  going.  I  hope  this  reaches  you 
in  time.  Please  understand  —  forgive  if  you  can. 
You  won't  see  me  again.  B." 

Peter  read  it  again,  thoughtfully  ;  then  looked  up. 
His  own  none-too-clear  eyes  met  Hy's  distinctly 
bloodshot  ones. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  that!"  cried  Hy. 
"What  do  you  think  of  that  !  .  .  .  Damn  women, 
anyway!  They  don't  play  the  game.  They're  not 
square."  .  .  .  He  was  clenching  and  unclench- 
ing his  hands.  Suddenly  he  reached  for  the  tele- 
phone. 

But  just  as  his  hand  closed  on  it,  the  bell  rang. 

Hy  snatched  up  the  receiver.     "Yes!"  he  cried 


140  THE    TRUFFLERS 

shortly — "Yes!  Yes!  He  lives  here.  Wait  a  mo- 
ment, please.  It's  for  you,  Pete." 

Peter  sprang  out  of  bed  and  hurried  to  the  instru- 
ment. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "this  is  Mr.  Mann." 

"Peter,  it's  Sue— Sue  Wilde." 

"Oh — hello!  I  was  going  to  call  up  myself  in  a 
few  minutes.  How  have  you  been?" 

"Not  awfully  fit.  This  constant  rehearsing  seems 
to  be  on  my  nerves,  or  something." 

There  was  a  pause.  Hy  went  off  into  the  bed- 
room to  get  out  of  his  travel-stained  clothes. 

"I  wanted  to  say,  Peter — I've  been  thinking  it  all 
over — " 

Peter  braced  himself. 

" — and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you  are 
right  about  that  southern  trip.  It  really  isn't  neces- 
sary." 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way." 

"I  do.  And  we  must  make  Zanin  see  it  as  we 
do." 

"We'll  try." 

Another  pause.    Then  this  from  Peter — 

"Busy  to-day?" 

"I  ought  to  be.    Are  you  ?" 


TWO    GIRLS    OF    THE   VILLAGE     141 

"No.  Can't  work.  Wish  we  could  do  some- 
thing." 

"I'd  like  some  air — to  get  away  from  the  streets 
and  that  stuffy  theater.  What  could  we  do?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  need,  child — just  the  thing ! 
We'll  run  down  to  one  of  the  beaches  and  tramp. 
Pick  up  lunch  anywhere.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I'll  do  it,  Peter.  Call  for  me,  will  you?  .  .  . 
And  oh,  Peter,  here's  an  odd  thing !  Betty  packed 
up  yesterday  while  I  was  out  and  went  home.  Just 
left  a  note.  She  has  run  away — given  up.  Going 
to  marry  a  man  in  her  town.  He  makes  gas  en- 
gines." 

Peter  started  the  coffee  machine,  smiling  as  he 
worked.  A  sense  of  deep  utter  calm  was  flowing 
into  his  harassed  spirit,  pervading  it. 

He  went  into  the  bedroom  and  gazed  with  toler- 
ant concern  at  the  downcast  Hy. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  my  boy,"  he  began,  then 
paused. 

"What's  the  trouble  with  me?"  growled  Hy. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  my  boy,  is  that  you  don't 
understand  women." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   WORM   TURNS   FROM    BOOKS   TO   LIFE 

THE  Worm  worked  hard  all  of  this  particular 
day  at  the  Public  Library,  up  at  Forty-second 
Street  and  Fifth  Avenue.  At  five  o'clock  he  came 
out,  paused  on  the  vast  incline  of  marble  steps  to 
consider  the  spraying  fountains  of  pale  green  foli- 
age on  the  terraces  (it  was  late  April)  and  the  bril- 
liant thronging  avenue  and  decided  not  to  ride  down 
to  Washington  Square  on  an  autobus,  but  to  save 
the  ten  cents  and  walk.  Which  is  how  he  came  to 
meet  Sue  Wilde. 

She  was  moving  slowly  along  with  the  stream  of 
pedestrians,  her  old  coat  open,  her  big  tarn  o'shanter 
hanging  down  behind  her  head  and  framing  her  face 
in  color.  The  face  itself,  usually  vital,  was  pale. 

She  turned  and  walked  with  him.  She  was  loaf- 
ing, she  said  listlessly,  watching  the  crowds  and  try- 
ing to  think.  And  she  added :  "It  helps." 

"Helps?" 

142 


THE   .WORM   TURNS  143 

"Just  feeling  them  crowding  around — I  don't 
know;  it  seems  to  keep  you  from  forgetting  that 
everybody  else  has  problems." 

Then  she  closed  her  lips  on  this  bit  of  self-revela- 
tion.   They  walked  a  little  way  in  silence. 
"Listen!"  said  she.    "What  are  you  doing?" 
"Half  an  hour's  work  at  home  clearing  up  my 
notes,  then  nothing.    Thinking  of  dinner?" 
She  nodded. 

"I'll  meet  you.     Wherever  you  say." 
"At  the  Muscovy,  then.    By  seven." 
She  stopped  as  if  to  turn  away,  hesitated,  lin- 
gered, gazing  out  with  sober  eyes  at  the  confusion 
of  limousines,  touring  cars  and  taxis  that  rolled 
endlessly  by,  with  here  and  there  a  high  green  bus 
lumbering  above  all  the  traffic.     "Maybe  we  can 
have  another  of  our  talks,  Henry,"  she  said.     "I 
hope  so.    I  need  it — or  something." 

"Sue,"  said  he,  "you're  working  too  hard." 
She  considered  this,  shook  her  head,  turned  ab- 
ruptly away. 

When  he  reached  the  old  bachelor  rookery  in  the 
Square  he  did  not  enter,  but  walked  twice  around 
the  block,  thinking  about  Sue.  It  had  disturbed  him 
to  see  that  tired  look  in  her  odd  deep-green  eyes. 
Sue  had  been  vivid,  striking,  straightforward;  fired 


144  THE   TRUFFLERS 

with  a  finely  honest  revolt  against  the  sham  life  into 
an  observance  of  which  nearly  all  of  us,  soon  or  late, 
get  beaten  down.  He  didn't  want  to  see  Sue  beaten 
down  like  the  rest. 

It  was  pleasant  that  she,  too,  had  felt  deeply  about 
their  friendship.  This  thought  brought  a  thrill  of 
the  sort  that  had  to  be  put  down  quickly ;  for  noth- 
ing could  have  been  plainer  than  that  he  stirred  no 
thrill  in  Sue.  No,  he  was  not  in  the  running  there. 
He  lived  in  books,  the  Worm ;  and  he  reflected  with 
a  rather  unaccustomed  touch  of  bitterness  that  books 
are  pale  things. 

Peter,  now — he  had  seemed  lately  to  be  in  the 
running. 

But  it  hardly  seemed  that  Peter  could  be  the  one 
who  had  brought  problems  into  Sue's  life.  .  .  . 
Jacob  Zanin — there  was  another  story !  He  was  in 
the  running  decidedly.  In  that  odd  frank  way  of 
hers,  Sue  had  given  the  Worm  glimpses  of  this  re- 
lationship. 

He  rounded  the  block  a  third  time — a  fourth — a 
fifth. 

When  he  entered  the  apartment  Peter  was  there, 
in  the  studio,  telephoning.  To  a  girl,  unquestion- 
ably. You  could  always  tell. 


THE   .WORM    TURNS  145 

"You  aren't  fair  to  me.  You  throw  me  aside 
without  a  word  of  explanation/' 

Thus  Peter ;  his  voice,  pitched  a  little  high,  near 
to  breaking  with  emotion;  as  if  he  were  pleading 
with  the  one  girl  in  the  world — though,  to  be  fair 
to  Peter,  she  almost  always  was. 

The  Worm  stepped  into  the  bedroom,  making  as 
much  noise  as  possible.  But  Peter  talked  on. 

"Yes,  you  are  taking  exactly  that  position.  As 
you  know,  I  share  your  interest  in  freedom — but 
freedom  without  fairness  or  decent  human  consid- 
eration or  even  respect  for  one's  word,  comes  down 
to  selfish  caprice.  Yes,  selfish  caprice !" 

The  Worm  picked  up  a  chair  and  banged  it  against 
the  door-post.  But  even  this  failed  to  stop  Peter. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear,  of  course  I  didn't  mean  that. 
I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.  You  can't  imag- 
ine how  I  have  looked  forward  to  seeing  you  this 
evening.  The  thought  of  it  has  been  with  me  all 
through  this  hard,  hard  day.  I  know  my  nerves  are 
a  wreck.  I'm  all  out  of  tune.  But  everything  seems 
to  have  landed  on  me  at  once.  .  .  ." 

Finding  the  chair  useless  as  a  warning,  the  Worm 
sat  upon  it,  made  a  Wry  face,  folded  his  arms. 

".    .    .    I've  got  to  go  away.     You  knew  that, 


146  THE   TRUFFLERS 

dear.  This  was  my  last  chance  to  see  you  for  weeks 
• — and  yet  you  speak  of  seeing  me  any  time.  It  hurts, 
little  girl.  It  just  plain  hurts  to  be  put  off  like  that. 
It  doesn't  seem  like  us." 

The  Worm  wondered,  rather  casually,  to  how 
many  girls  Peter  had  talked  in  this  way  during  the 
past  three  years — stage  girls,  shop  girls — the  pretty 
little  Irish  one,  from  the  glove  counter  up-town; 
and  that  young  married  person  on  the  upper  West 
Side  of  whom  Peter  had  been  unable  to  resist  brag- 
ging a  little;  and  Maria  Tonifetti,  manicurist  at  the 
sanitary  barber  shop  of  Marius;  and — oh,  yes,  and 
Grace  Derring.  Only  last  year.  The  actress.  She 
played  Lena  in  Peter's  The  Buzzard,  and  later  made 
a  small  sensation  in  The  Gold  Heart.  That  affair 
had  looked,  for  several  months,  like  the  real  thing. 
The  Worm  recalled  one  tragic  night,  all  of  which, 
until  breakfast  time,  he  had  passed  in  that  very 
studio  talking  Peter  out  of  suicide. 

He  wondered  who  this  new  girl  could  be.  Was 
it  Sue,  by  any  chance  ?  Were  they  that  far  along  ? 

The  Worm  got  up  with  some  impatience  and  went 
in  there — just  as  Peter  angrily  slammed  the  receiver 
on  its  hook. 

"I  hear  you're  going  away,"  the  Worm  observed 
dryly. 


THE   WORM   TURNS  147 

Peter  swung  around  and  peered  through  his  big 
glasses.  He  made  a  visible  effort  to  compose  him- 
self. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "hello!  What's  that?  Yes,  I'm 
leaving  to-morrow  afternoon.  Neuerman  is  going 
to  put  The  Truffler  on  the  road  for  a  few  weeks  this 
spring  to  try  out  the  cast." 

The  Worm  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "Look 
here,  Pete,"  said  he,  "it  isn't  my  fault  that  God 
gave  me  ears.  I  heard  your  little  love  scene." 

Peter  looked  blankly  at  him ;  then  his  face  twisted 
convulsively  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Oh,  Henry !"  he  groaned.  "It's  awful.  I'm  in 
love,  man !"  His  voice  was  really  trembling.  "It's 
got  me  at  last — the  real  thing.  I  must  tell  some- 
body— it's  racking  me  to  pieces — I  can't  work,  can't 
sleep.  It's  Sue  Wilde.  I've  asked  her  to  marry  me 
— she  can't  make  up  her  mind.  And  now  I've  got  to 
go  away  for  weeks  and  leave  things  .  .  .  Za- 
Zanin  .  .  ." 

He  sat  up,  stiffened  his  shoulders,  bit  his  lip.  The 
Worm  feared  he  was  going  to  cry.  But  instead 
he  sprang  up,  rushed  from  the  room  and,  a  moment 
later,  from  the  apartment. 

The  Worm  sat  on  a  corner  of  the  desk  and  looked 
after  him,  thought  about  him,  let  his  feelings  rise 


148  THE   TRUFFLERS 

a  little.  .  .  .  Peter,  even  in  his  anger  and  con- 
fusion, had  managed  to  look  unruffled,  well- 
groomed.  He  always  did.  No  conceivable  outburst 
of  emotion  could  have  made  him  forget  to  place  his 
coat  on  the  hanger  and  crease  his  trousers  carefully 
in  the  frame.  His  various  suits  were  well  made. 
They  fitted  him.  They  •  represented  thought  and 
money.  His  shoes — eight  or  nine  pairs  in  all — were 
custom  made  and  looked  it.  His  scarfs  were  of  im- 
ported silk.  His  collars  came  from  England  and  cost 
forty  cents  each.  His  walking  sticks  had  distinc- 
tion. .  .  .  And  Peter  was  successful  with  women. 
No  doubt  about  that. 

The  Worm  gazed  down  at  himself.  The  old  gray 
suit  Was  a  shapeless  thing.  The  coat  pockets  bulged 
— note-book  and  wad  of  loose  notes  on  one  side,  a 
paper-bound  volume  in  the  Russian  tongue  on  the 
other.  He  had  just  one  other  suit.  It  hung  from 
a  hook  in  the  closet,  and  he  knew  that  it,  too,  was 
shapeless. 

A  clock,  somewhere  outside,  struck  seven. 

He  started ;  stuffed  his  note-book  and  papers  into 
a  drawer;  drew  the  volume  in  Russian  from  his 
other  pocket,  made  as  if  to  lay  it  on  the  table,  then 
hesitated.  It  was  his  custom  to  have  some  reading 
always  by  him.  Sue  might  be  late.  She  often  was. 


THE    WORM    TURNS  149 

Suddenly  he  raised  the  book  above  his  head  and 
threw  it  against  the  wall  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  Then  he  picked  up  his  old  soft  hat  (he  never 
wore  an  overcoat)  and  rushed  out. 

The  Muscovy  is  a  basement  restaurant  near  Wash- 
ington Square.  You  get  into  it  from  the  street  by 
stumbling  down  a  dark  twisting  flight  of  uneven 
steps  and  opening  a  door  under  a  high  stoop.  Art 
dines  here  and  Anarchism;  Ideas  sit  cheek  by  jowl 
with  the  Senses. 

Sue  was  not  late.  She  sat  in  the  far  corner  at 
one  of  the  few  small  tables  in  the  crowded  room. 
Two  men,  a  poet  and  a  painter,  lounged  against  the 
table  and  chatted  with  her  languidly.  She  had 
brightened  a  little  for  them.  There  was  a  touch 
of  color  in  her  cheeks  and  some  life  in  her  eyes. 
The  Worm  noted  this  fact  as  he  made  his  way  to- 
ward her. 

The  poet  and  the  painter  wandered  languidly 
away.  The  chatter  of  the  crowded  smoky  room  rose 
to  its  diurnal  climax ;  passed  it  as  by  twos  and  threes 
the  diners  drifted  out  to  the  street  or  up-stairs  to 
the  dancing  and  reading-rooms  of  the  Free  woman's 
Club ;  and  then  rapidly  died  to  nothing. 

Two  belated  couples  strolled  in,  settled  themselves 
sprawlingly  at  the  long  center  Jable  and  discussed 


150  THE   TRUFFLERS 

with  the  offhand,  blandly  sophisticated  air  that  is 
the  Village  manner  the  currently  accepted  psychol- 
ogy of  sex. 

The  Worm  was  smoking  now — his  old  brier  pipe 
— and  felt  a  bit  more  like  his  quietly  whimsical  self. 
Sue,  however,  was  moody  over  her  coffee. 

A  pasty-faced,  very  calm  young  man,  with  longish 
hair,  came  in  and  joined  in  the  discussion  at  the 
center  table. 

Sue  followed  this  person  with  troubled  eyes. 

"Listen,  Henry!"  she  said  then,  "I'm  wonder- 
ing-" 

He  waited. 

" — for  the  first  time  in  two  years — if  I  belong 
in  Greenwich  Village." 

"I've  asked  myself  the  same  question,  Sue." 

This  remark  perturbed  her  a  little;  as  if  it  had 
not  before  occurred  to  her  that  other  eyes  were 
reading  her.  Then  she  rushed  on — "Take  Waters 
jCoryell  over  there"- — she  indicated  the  pasty-faced 
one — "I  used  to  think  he  was  wonderful.  But  he's 
all  words.  Like  the  rest  of  us.  He  always  carries 
that  calm  assumption  of  being  above  ordinary  hu- 
man limitations.  He  talks  comradeship  and  the  per- 
fect freedom.  But  I've  had  a  glimpse  into  his 
methods — Abbie  Esterzell,  you  know^-" 


THE   WORM    TURNS  151 

The  Worm  nodded. 

" — and  it  isn't  a  pretty  story.  I've  watched  the 
women,  too — the  free  lovers.  Henry,  they're  tragic. 
When  they  get  just  a  little  older." 

He  nodded  again.  "But  we  were  talking  about 
you,  Sue.  You're  not  all  words/' 

"Yes  I  am.  All  talk,  theories,  abstractions.  It 
gets  you,  down  here.  You  do  it,  like  all  the  others. 
It's  a  sort  of  mental  taint.  Yet  it  has  been  every 
thing  to  me.  I've  believed  it,  heart  and  soul.  It 
has  been  my  religion." 

"I'm  not  much  on  generalizing,  Sue,"  observed 
the  Worm,  "but  sometimes  I  have  thought  that 
there's  a  lot  of  bunk  in  this  freedom  theory — 'self- 
realization/  'the  complete  life/  so  on.  I  notice  that 
most  of  the  men  and  women  I  really  admire  aren't 
worried  about  their  liberty.  Sometimes  I've  thought 
that  there's  a  limit  to  our  human  capacity  for  free- 
dom just  as  there's  a  limit  to  our  capacity  for 
food  and  drink  and  other  pleasant  things — sort  of 
a  natural  boundary.  The  people  that  try  to  pass 
that  boundary  seem  to  detach  themselves  in  some 
vital  way  from  actual  life.  They  get  unreal — act 
queer — are  queer.  They  reach  a  point  where  their 
pose  is  all  they've  got.  As  you  say,  it's  a  taint.  It's 
a  noble  thing,  all  right,  to  fight  and  bleed  and  die 


152  THE   TRUFFLERS 

for  freedom  for  others.  But  it  seems  to  work  out 
unhappily  when  people,  men  or  women,  insist  too 
strongly  on  freedom  for  their  individual  selves." 

But  Sue  apparently  was  not  listening.  Her  cheeks 
— they  were  flushed — rested  on  her  small  fists. 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "it's  a  pretty  serious  thing  to 
lose  your  religion." 
.  "Losing  yours,  Sue?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  gone." 

"You  thought  this  little  eddy  of  talk  was  real 
life?" 

She  nodded.    "Oh,  I  did." 

"And  then  you  encountered  reality  ?" 

Her  eyes,  startled,  vivid  now  if  somber,  flashed 
up  at  him.  "Henry,  how  did  you  know  ?  What  do 
you  know?" 

"Not  a  thing,  Sue.  But  I  know  you  a  little.  And 
I've  thought  about  you." 

"Then,"  she  said,  her  eyes  down  again,  suppres- 
sion in  her  voice — "then  they  aren't  talking  about 
me?" 

"Not  that  I've  heard,  Sue.  Though  it  would 
hardly  come  to  me." 

She  bit  her  lip.  "There  you  have  it,  Henry.  With 
the  ideas  I've  held  and  talked  everywhere,  I  ought 
not  to  care  what  they  say.  But  I  do  care/' 


THE   WORM    TURNS  153 

"Of  course.    They  all  do." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  She  considered  this.  "You 
said  something  a  moment  ago  that  perhaps  explains 
— about  the  natural  boundary  of  human  freedom. 
.  .  .  Listen !  You  knew  Betty  Deane,  the  girl  that 
roomed  with  me  ?  Well,  less  than  a  year  ago,  after 
letting  herself  go  some  all  the  year — it's  fair  enough 
to  say  that,  to  you;  she  didn't  cover  her  tracks — 
she  suddenly  ran  off  and  married  a  manufacturer 
up  in  her  home  town.  I'm  sure  there  wasn't  any 
love  in  it.  I  know  it,  from  things  she  said  and  did. 
All  the  while  he  was  after  her  she  was  having  her 
good  times  here.  I  suppose  she  had  reached  the 
boundary.  She  married  in  a  panic.  She  was  hav- 
ing a  little  affair  with  your  friend  —  what's  his 
name  ?" 

"Hy  Lowe?" 

The  Worm  smiled  faintly.  The  incorrigible  Hy 
had  within  the  week  set  up  a  fresh  attachment.  This 
time  it  was  a  new  girl  in  the  Village — one  Hilda 
Hansen,  from  Wisconsin,  who  designed  wall-paper 
part  of  the  time. 

But  he  realized  that  Sue,  with  a  deeper  flush  now 
and  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  he  did  not  like  to  see 
there,  was  speaking. 

"When  I  found  out  what  Betty  had  done  I  said 


154  THE   TRUFFLERS 

some  savage  things,  Henry.  Called  her  a  coward. 
Oh,  I  was  very  superior — very  sure  of  myself.  And 
here's  the  grotesque  irony  of  it."  Her  voice  was 
unsteady.  "Here's  what  one  little  unexpected  con- 
tact with  reality  can  do  to  the  sort  of  scornful  inde- 
pendent mind  I  had.  Twenty- four  hours — less  than 
that — after  Betty  went  I  found  myself  soberly  con- 
sidering doing  the  same  thing." 

"Marrying?"  The  Worm's  voice  was  suddenly 
low  and  a  thought  husky. 

She  nodded. 

"A  man  you  don't  love?" 

"I've  had  moments  of  thinking  I  loved  him,  hours 
of  wondering  how  I  could,  possibly." 

He  was  some  time  in  getting  out  his  next  remark. 
It  was,  "You'd  better  wait." 

She  threw  out  her  hands  in  an  expressive  way 
she  had.  "Wait?  Yes,  that's  what  I've  told  my- 
self, Henry.  But  I've  lost  my  old  clear  sense  of 
things.  My  nerves  aren't  steady.  I  have  queer 
reactions." 

Then  she  closed  her  lips  as  she  had  once  before 
on  this  day,  up  there  on  the  avenue.  She  even 
seemed  to  compose  herself.  Waters  Coryell  came 
over  from  the  other  table  and  for  a  little  time  talked 
down  to  them  from  his  attitude  of  self-perfection. 


THE    WORM    TURNS  155 

When  he  had  gone  the  Worm  said,  to  make  talk, 
"How  are  the  pictures  coming  on?" 

Then  he  saw  that  he  had  touched  the  same  tired 
nerve  center.  Her  flush  began  to  return. 

"Not  very  well,"  she  said;  and  thought  for  a 
moment,  with  knit  brows  and  pursed  lips. 

She  threw  out  her  hands  again.  "They're  quar- 
reling, Henry." 

"Zanin  and  Peter?" 

She  nodded.  "It  started  over  Zanin's  publicity. 
He  is  a  genius,  you  know.  Any  sort  of  effort  that 
will  help  get  the  picture  across  looks  legitimate  to 
him." 

"Of  course,"  mused  the  Worm,  trying  to  resume 
the  modestly  judicial  habit  of  mind  that  had  seemed 
lately  to  be  leaving  him,  "I  suppose,  in  a  way,  he  is 
right.  It  is  terribly  hard  to  make  a  success  of  such 
an  enterprise.  It  is  like  war* — the  only  possible 
course  is  to  win." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  she,  rather  shortly.  "But 
then  there's  the  expense  side  of  it.  Zanin  keeps  get- 
ting the  bit  in  his  teeth.  .  .  .  Lately  I've  begun 
to  see  that  these  quarrels  are  just  the  surface.  The 
real  clash  lies  deeper.  It's  partly  racial,  I  suppose, 
and  partly — " 

"Personal?" 


156  THE   JRUFFLERS 

"Yes."  She  threw  out  her  hands.  "They're  fight- 
ing over  me.  I  don't  mind  it  so  much  in  Peter.  He 
has  only  lately  come  to  see  things  our  way.  He 
never  made  the  professions  Zanin  has  of  being  su- 
perior to  passions,  jealousies,  the  sense  of  posses- 
sion." 

She  paused,  brooding,  oblivious  now  to  her  sur- 
roundings, slowly  shaking  her  head.  "Zanin  has 
always  said  that  the  one  real  wrong  is  to  take  or 
accept  love  where  it  isn't  real  enough  to  justify  it- 
self. But  now  when  I  won't  see  him — those  are 
the  times  he  runs  wild  with  the  business.  Then 
Peter  has  to  row  with  him  to  check  the  awful  waste 
of  money.  Peter's  rather  wonderful  about  it.  He 
never  loses  his  courage." 

This  was  a  new  picture  of  Peter.  The  Worm 
gave  thought  to  it. 

"First  he  took  Zanin's  disconnected  abstractions 
and  made  a  real  film  drama  out  of  them.  It's  big 
stuff,  Henry.  Powerful  and  fine.  And  then  he 
threw  in  every  cent  he  had." 

"Peter  threw  in  every  cent!  .  .  ."  The  Worm 
was  startled  upright,  pipe  in  hand. 

"Every  cent,  Henry.  All  his  savings.  And  never 
a  grudging  word.  Not  about  that." 

She  dropped  her  chin  on  her  hands.    Tears  were 


THE    WORM   TURNS  157 

in  her  eyes.  Her  boy-cut  short  hair  had  lately  grown 
out  a  little,  and  was  rumpled  where  she  had  run 
her  fingers  through  it.  It  was  fine-spun  hair  and 
thick  on  her  head.  It  was  all  high  lights  and  rich 
brown  shades.  The  Worm  found  himself  wishing 
it  was  long  and  free,  rippling  down  over  her  shoul- 
ders. He  thought,  too,  of  the  fine  texture  of  her 
skin,  just  beneath  the  hair.  A  warm  glow  was 
creeping  through  his  nervous  system  and  into  his 
mind.  .  .  .  He  set  his  teeth  hard  on  his  pipe- 
stem. 

She  leaned  back  more  relaxed  and  spoke  in  a 
quieter  tone.  "You  know  how  I  feel  about  things, 
Henry.  I  quit  my  home.  I  have  put  on  record  my 
own  little  protest  against  the  conventional  lies  we 
are  all  fed  on  from  the  cradle  here  in  America.  I 
went  into  this  picture  thing  with  my  eyes  open,  be- 
cause it  was  what  I  believed  in.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant 
thought — making  myself  so  conspicuous,  acting  for 
the  camera  without  clothes  enough  to  keep  me  warm. 
I  believed  in  Zanin,  too.  And  it  seemed  to  be  a  way 
in  which  I  could  really  do  something  for  him — after 
all  he  had  done  for  me.  But  it  hasn't  turned  out 
well.  The  ideals  seem  to  have  oozed  out  of  it." 

There  she  hesitated ;  thought  a  little ;  then  added : 
"The  thing  I  didn't  realize  was  that  I  was  pouring 


158  THE   TRUFFLERS 

out  all  my  emotional  energy.  I  had  Zanin's  ex- 
ample always  before  me.  He  never  tires.  He  is 
iron.  The  Jews  are,  I  think.  But — I — "  she  tried 
to  smile,  without,  great  success  —  "Well,  I'm  not 
iron.  Henry,  I'm  tired." 

The  Worm  slept  badly  that  night. 

The  next  morning,  after  Peter  and  Hy  Lowe  had 
gone,  the  Worm  stood  gloomily  surveying  his  books 
— between  two  and  three  hundred  of  them,  filling 
the  case  of  shelves  between  the  front  wall  and  the 
fireplace,  packed  in  on  end  and  sidewise  and  heaped 
haphazard  on  top. 

Half  a  hundred  volumes  in  calf  and  nearly  as 
many  in  Morocco  dated  from  a  youthful  period 
when  bindings  mattered.  College  years  were  repre- 
sented by  a  shabby  row  —  Eschuylus,  Euripides, 
Aristophanes,  Plato,  Plutarch,  Virgil  and  Horace. 
He  had  another  Horace  in  immaculate  tree  calf. 
There  was  a  group  of  early  Italians;  an  imposing 
Dante ;  a  Boccaccio,  very  rare,  in  a  dated  Florentine 
binding;  a  gleaning  of  French  history,  philosophy 
and  belles-lettres  from  Phillippe  de  Comines  and  Vil- 
lon, through  Rabelais,  Le  Sage,  Racine,  Corneille 
and  the  others,  to  Bergson,  Brieux,  Rolland  and 
Anatole  France — with,  of  course,  Flaubert,  de 
Maupassant  and  a  tattered  series  oLLes  Trois  Mous- 


THE   WORM   TURNS  159 

quetaires  in  seven  volumes;  some  modern  German 
playwrights,  Hauptmann  and  Schnitzler  among 
them;  Ibsen  in  two  languages;  Strindberg  in  Eng- 
lish; Gogol,  Tchekov,  Gorky,  Dostoievski,  of  the 
Russians  (in  that  tongue)  ;  the  modern  psycholo- 
gists— Forel,  Havelock  Ellis,  Freud — and  the  com- 
plete works  of  William  James  in  assorted  shapes  and 
bindings,  gathered  painstakingly  through  the  years. 
Walt  Whitman  was  there,  Percy's  Reliques,  much 
of  Galsworthy,  Wells  and  Conrad,  The  Story  of 
Costa  Berling,  John  Masefield,  and  a  number  of 
other  recent  poets  and  novelists.  All  his  earthly 
treasures  were  on  those  shelves;  there,  until  now, 
had  his  heart  been  also. 

He  took  from  its  shelf  the  rare  old  Boccaccio  in 
the  dated  binding,  tied  a  string  around  it,  went  down 
the  corridor  with  it  to  the  bathroom,  filled  the  tub 
with  cold  water  and  tossed  the  book  in. 

It  bobbed  up  to  the  surface  and  floated  there. 

He  frowned — sat  on  the  rim  of  the  tub  and 
watched  it  for  ten  minutes.  It  still  floated. 

He  brought  it  back  to  the  studio  then  and  set  to 
work  methodically  making  up  parcels  of  books,  us- 
ing all  the  newspapers  he  could  find.  Into  each  par- 
cel went  a  weight — the  two  ends  of  the  brass  book- 
holder  on  the  desk,  a  bronze  elephant,  a  heavy  glass 


160  THE  'TRUFFLERS 

paper-weight,  a  pint  bottle  of  ink,  an  old  monkey- 
wrench,  the  two  bricks  from  the  fireplace  that  had 
served  as  andirons. 

He  worked  in  a  fever  of  determination.  By  two 
o'clock  that  afternoon  he  had  completed  a  series 
of  trips  across  the  West  Side  and  over  various  ferry 
lines,  and  his  entire  library  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the 
North  River. 

From  the  last  of  these  trips,  feeling  curiously 
light  of  heart,  he  returned  to  find  a  taxi  waiting  at 
the  curb  and  in  the  studio  Peter,  hat,  coat  and  one 
glove  on,  his  suit-case  on  a  chair,  furiously  writing 
a  note. 

Peter  finished,  leaned  back,  mopped  his  forehead. 

"The  books,"  he  murmured,  waving  a  vague  hand 
toward  the  shelves.  "Where  are  they  ?" 

"I'm  through  with  books.    Going  in  for  reality." 

"Oh,"  mused  the  eminent  playwright — "a  girl." 

"Pete,  you're  wonderful." 

"Chucking  your  whole  past  life?" 

"It's  chucked."  Then  the  Worm  hesitated.  For 
a  moment  his  breath  nearly  failed  him.  He  stood 
balancing  on  the  brink  of  the  unknown ;  and  he  knew 
he  had  to  make  the  plunge.  "Pete — I've  got  a  few 
hundred  stuck  away — and,  anyhow,  I'm  going  out 
for  a  real  job." 


THE    WORM    TURNS  161 

"A  job!    You!    What  kind?" 

"Oh — newspaper  man,  maybe.  I  want  the  ad- 
dress— who  is  your  tailor?" 

Peter  jotted  it  down.  "By  the  way,"  he  said, 
"here's  our  itinerary.  Stick  it  in  your  pocket." 
Then  he  gazed  at  the  Worm  in  a  sort  of  solemn 
humor.  "So  the  leopard  is  changing  his  spots,"  he 
mused. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  the  Worm, 
flushing,  then  reduced  to  a  grin — as  he  pocketed  the 
tailor's  address — "but  this  particular  Ethiop  is  sure 
going  to  make  a  stab  at  changing  his  skin." 


CHAPTER  XV 

ZANIN    MAKES    HIMSELF    FELT 

SUE  was  in  her  half- furnished  living-room — not 
curled  comfortably  on  the  couch-bed,  as  she 
would  have  been  a  month  or  two  earlier,  but  sitting 
rather  stiffly  in  a  chair,  a  photograph  in  her  listless 
hand. 

Zanin — big,  shaggy,  sunburnt — walked  the  floor. 

"Are  you  turning  conventional,  Sue?"  he  asked. 
"What  is  it  ?  You  puzzle  me." 

"I  don't  want  that  picture  used,  Jacob." 

He  lighted  a  cigarette,  dropped  on  a  wooden  chair, 
tipped  it  back  against  the  wall,  twisted  his  feet 
around  the  front  legs,  drummed  on  the  front  of  the 
seat  with  big  fingers. 

He  reached  for  the  photograph.  It  was  Sue  her- 
self, as  she  would  appear  in  one  of  the  more  daring 
scenes  of  Nature. 

"It's  an  honest  picture,  Sue — right  off  the  film." 

She  was  very  quiet.  "It's  the  singling  it  out, 
Jacob.  In  the  film  it  is  all  movement,  action — it 

162 


ZANIN    MAKES    HIMSELF    FELT     163 

passes.  It  doesn't  stay  before  their  eyes."  A  little 
feeling  crept  into  her  voice.  "I  agreed  to  do  the 
film,  Jacob.  I'm  doing  it.  Am  I  not?" 

"But  you're  drawing  a  rather  sharp  line,  Sue. 
We've  got  to  hit  them  hard  with  this  thing.  I  don't 
expect  Mann  to  understand.  I've  got  to  work  along 
with  him  as  best  I  can  and  let  it  go  at  that.  But  I 
count  on  you."  The  legs  of  the  chair  came  down 
with  a  bang.  He  sprang  up  and  walked  the  floor 
again.  His  cigarette  consumed,  he  lighted  another 
with  the  butt,  which  latter  he  tossed  into  a  corner 
of  the  room.  Sue's  eyes  followed  it  there.  She  was 
still  gazing  at  it  when  Zanin  paused  before  her.  She 
could  feel  him  looking  down  at  her.  She  wished  it 
were  possible  to  avoid  discussion  just  now.  There 
had  been  so  many  discussions  during  these  crowded 
two  years.  .  .  .  She  raised  her  eyes.  There  were 
his,  fixed  on  her.  He  was  not  tired.  His  right  hand 
was  plunged  into  his  thick  hair;  his  left  hand  held 
the  cigarette. 

"You're  none  too  fit,  Sue." 

She  moved  her  hands  in  assent. 

"And  that's  something  to  be  considered  seriously. 
We  need  you  fit." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  would  have  liked 
to  send  him  away.  She  tried  to  recall  the  long  slow 


164  THE   TRUFFLERS 

series  of  events,  each  dovetailed  so  intricately  into 
the  next  that  had  brought  them  so  close.  Her  mind 
— her  sense  of  fairness — told  her  that  he  had  every 
right  to  stand  there  and  talk  at  her;  yet  he  seemed 
suddenly  and  oddly  a  stranger. 

"Suppose,"  she  said,  "we  stop  discussing  me." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  quite  time  to  begin  dis- 
cussing you.  It's  suppressions,  Sue.  You've  played 
the  Village  game  with  your  mind,  but  you've  kept 
your  feelings  under.  The  result  is  natural  enough 
•• — your  nerves  are  in  a  knot.  You  must  let  go — 
trust  your  emotions." 

"I  trust  my  emotions  enough,"  said  she  shortly. 

He  walked  back  and  forth.  "Let's  look  at  this 
dispassionately,  Sue.  We  can,  you  and  I.  Of  course 
I  love  you  —  you  know  that.  There  have  been 
women  enough  in  my  life,  but  none  of  them  has 
stirred  my  blood  as  you  have.  Not  one.  I  want 
you — desperately — every  minute — month  in,  month 
out.  But" — he  stood  before  her  again — "if  you 
can't  let  go  with  me,  I'd  almost — surely,  yes,  I  can 
say  it,  I'd  rather  it  would  be  somebody  else  then. 
But  somebody,  something.  You're  all  bottled  up. 
It's  dangerous." 

She  stirred  restlessly. 

"You  know  that  as  well  as  I."    He  was  merciless. 


ZANIN    MAKES    HIMSELF    FELT     165 

The  worst  of  it  was  he  really  seemed  dispassionate. 
For  the  moment  she  could  not  question  his  sincerity. 
He  went  on — "As  lately  as  last  winter  you  would 
have  carried  all  this  off  with  a  glorious  flare.  It's 
this  suppression  that  has  got  to  your  nerves, 
as  it  was  bound  to.  You're  dodging,  I'm  afraid. 
You're  refusing  life."  He  lit  another  cigarette. 
"It's  damn  puzzling.  At  heart  you  are,  I  know,  a 
thoroughbred.  I  can't  imagine  you  marrying  for  a 
living  or  to  escape  love.  You're  intelligent — too  in- 
telligent for  that."  She  moved  restlessly,  picked  up 
the  photograph  and  studied  it  again. 

"You  can't  go  back  to  that  home  of  yours    .    .    ." 

"I'm  not  going  back  there,"  she  said. 

"And  you  can't  quit.    We're  too  deep  in." 

"Don't  talk  about  that,  Jacob!"  she  broke  out. 
"I'm  not  going  to  quit." 

He  dropped  casually  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  One 
big  hand  rested  on  the  chair-back,  the  other  took 
hers  and  held  it,  with  the  picture,  a  little  higher. 

She  seemed  for  an  instant  to  shrink  away;  then, 
with  slightly  compressed  lips,  sat  motionless. 

"You  think  I  am  squeamish,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  do."  They  both  looked  at  the  photo- 
graph. 

"Really,  Sue — why  on  earth !    .    .    .    What  is  it, 


166  THE    TRUFFLERS 

anyway?  Are  you  all  of  a  sudden  ashamed  of  your 
body?" 

"Don't  expect  me  to  explain.  I  know  I'm  incon- 
sistent." 

He  pressed  her  hand ;  then  his  other  big  hand  very 
quietly  stroked  her  hair,  slid  down  to  her  forehead, 
rested  slightly  on  her  flushed  temple  and  cheek. 

"You  poor  child,"  he  said,  "you're  almost  in  a 
fever.  You've  got  to  do  something.  Don't  you  see 
that?" 

She  was  silent. 

"It's  tearing  you  to  pieces,  this  giving  the  lie  to 
your  own  beliefs.  You've  got  to  let  go,  Sue !  For 
God's  sake,  be  human!  Accept  a  little  happiness. 
You're  not  a  small  person.  You  are  gifted,  big. 
But  you've  got  to  live  the  complete  life.  It's  the 
only  answer.  .  .  .  See  here.  Peter's  away,  isn't 
he?" 

"He  left  last  Thursday  ...  I  had  a  note  .   .   ." 

"I  didn't,"  Zanin  smiled  grimly.  "It's  Tuesday, 
now.  We  can't  do  those  outdoor  scenes  yet.  You 
come  away  with  me.  I'll  take  you  off  into  the  hills 
somewhere — over  in  Pennsylvania  or  up-state.  Let's 
have  some  happiness,  Sue.  And  give  me  a  chance  to 
take  a  little  real  care  of  you.  Half  my  strength  is 
rusting  right  now  because  you  won't  use  it." 


ZANIN    MAKES    HIMSELF    FELT     167 

He  drew  her  closer. 

Suddenly  she  sprang  up,  leaped  across  the  room, 
whirled  against  the  wall  and  faced  him. 

Then  she  faltered  perceptibly,  for  on  his  face  she 
saw  only  frank  admiration. 

"Fine,  Sue !"  he  cried.  "That's  the  old  fire !  Damn 
it,  girl,  don't  let's  be  childish  about  this !  You  and 
I  don't  need  to  get  all  of  a  flutter  at  the  thought  of 
love.  If  I  didn't  stir  an  emotional  response  in  you 
do  you  think  I'd  want  you?  But  I  do."  He  rose 
and  came  to  her.  He  gripped  her  shoulders  and 
made  her  look  at  him.  "Child,  for  God's  sake,  don't 
all  at  once  forget  everything  you  know!  Where's 
your  humor  ?  Can't  you  see  that  this  is  exactly  what 
you've  got  to  have — that  somebody  has  got  to  stir 
you  as  I'm  stirring  you  now!  If  I  couldn't  reach 
you,  it  would  have  to  be  some  one  else.  A  little 
love  won't  hurt  you  any.  The  real  danger  I've  been 
fearing  is  that  no  man  would  be  able  to  stir  you. 
That  would  be  the  tragedy.  You're  a  live  vital  girl. 
You're  an  artist.  Of  course  you've  got  to  have  love. 
You'll  never  do  real  work  without  it.  You'll  never 
even  grow  up  without  it." 

She  could  not  meet  his  eyes.  And  she  had  a  dis- 
heartening feeling  that  he  was  reasonable  and  right, 
granting  the  premises  of  their  common  philosophy. 


168  THE    TRUFFLERS 

He  took  his  hands  away.  She  heard  him  strike  a 
match  and  light  a  cigarette,  then  move  about  the 
room.  Then  his  voice — 

"What  do  you  say,  Sue — will  you  pack  a  bag  and 
start  off  with  me?  It'll  do  both  of  us  good.  It'll 
give  us  new  life  for  our  job." 

She  was  shaking  her  head.  "No,"  she  said.  "No." 

"If  it  was  only  this,"  he  said,  thoughtfully  enough 
— "but  it's  everything.  Peter  is  lying  down  on  me 
and  now  you  are  failing  me  utterly." 

She  dropped  on  a  chair  by  the  door.  "That's  the 
hardest  thing  you  ever  said  to  me,  Jacob." 

"It  is  true.  I'm  not  blaming  you.  But  it  is  a 
fact  I  have  to  meet.  .  .  .  Sue,  do  you  think  for 
one  moment  I  intend  being  beaten  in  this  enterprise  ? 
Don't  you  know  me  better  than  that  ?  You  are  fail- 
ing me.  Not  in  love — that  is  personal.  But  in  the 
work.  Lately  I  have  feared  that  Peter  had  your 
love.  Now,  Sue,  if  I  am  not  to  have  you  I  can  al- 
most wish  he  had.  When  you  do  accept  love  it  will 
hurt  you.  I  have  no  doubt  of  that.  There  will  be 
reactions.  The  conventional  in  you  will  stab  and 
stab.  But  you  are  not  little,  and  you  will  feel  the 
triumph  of  it.  It  will  make  you.  After  all,  how- 
ever it  may  come,  through  door  or  window,  love  is 
life." 


Will  you  pack  a  bag  and  start  off  with  me? 


ZANIN    MAKES    HIMSELF    FELT     169 

She  had  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  was  look- 
ing down  at  them.  "I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right," 
she  said  slowly  and  quietly. 

He  gave  a  weary  sigh.  "Of  course.  Your  own 
intelligence  tells  you.  ...  If  you  won't  go  with 
me,  Sue,  I  may  slip  away  alone.  I've  got  to  think. 
I've  got  to  get  money.  I  can  get  it,  and  I  will.  A 
little  more  energy,  a  little  more  expenditure  of  per- 
sonality will  do  it.  It  can  always  be  done." 

Her  mind  roused  and  seized  on  this  as  a  mo- 
mentary diversion.  "Do  you  mean  to  go  outside 
for  it?" 

"If  it  comes  to  that.  Don't  you  know,  Sue,  that 
we're  too  far  in  with  this  thing  to  falter.  The  way 
to  make  money  is  to  spend  money.  Peter's  a  chicken. 
If  he  won't  come  through,  somebody's  got  to.  Why 
it  would  cost  more  than  a  thousand  dollars — per- 
haps two  thousand  —  merely  to  do  what  I  have 
planned  to  do  with  the  picture  you  so  suddenly  dis- 
like." He  looked  about  for  his  hat.  "I'm  going, 
Sue.  I've  let  myself  get  stirred  up;  and  that,  of 
course,  is  foolishness.  I'm  just  tiring  you  out.  You 
can't  help,  I  see  that — not  as  you  are." 

She  rose  and  leaned  against  the  wall  by  the  door. 
He  took  her  arm  as  he  reached  her  side.  "Buck  up, 
little  girl,"  he  said ;  "don't  blame  yourself." 


170  THE  TRUFFLERS 

She  did  not  answer,  and  for  a  long  moment  they 
stood  thus.  Then  she  heard  him  draw  in  his  breath. 

His  arms  were  around  her.  He  held  her  against 
him. 

"Have  you  got  a  kiss  for  me,  Sue?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  let  her  go  then,  and  again  she  leaned  against 
the  wall. 

"Good-by,"  said  he.  "If  you  could  bring  your- 
self to  share  the  real  thrill  with  me,  I  could  help 
you.  But  I'm  not  going  to  wear  you  out  with  this 
crude  sex-duel  stuff.  Good-by." 

"Wait,"  she  said  then.  She  moved  over  to  the 
table,  and  fingered  the  photograph.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  watched  her.  She  was  thinking — des- 
perately thinking.  He  could  see  that.  The  flush 
was  still  on  her  temples  and  cheeks.  Finally  she 
straightened  up  and  faced  him. 

"Jacob,"  she  said,  "I  can't  let  you  go  like  that. 
This  thing  has  got  to  be  settled.  Really  settled." 

He  slowly  nodded. 

"Give  me  till  Saturday,  Jacob.  I  promise  you 
I'll  try  to  think  it  all  out.  I'll  go  through  with  the 
pictures  anyway — somehow.  As  for  this  photo- 
graph, go  ahead.  Use  it.  Only  please  don't  commit 
yourself  in  a  money  way  before  I  see  you.  Come  to 


ZANIN    MAKES    HIMSELF    FELT     171 

tea  Saturday,  at  four.  I'll  either  tell  you  finally  that 
we  are — well,  hardly  to  be  friends  beyond  the  rest 
of  this  job  of  ours,  or  I'll — I'll  go  along  with  you, 
Jacob." 

Her  voice  faltered  over  the  last  of  this,  but  her 
eyes  did  not.  And  her  chin  was  high. 

"It's  too  bad,"  said  he.  "But  you're  right.  It 
isn't  me.  .You've  come  to  the  point  where  you've 
got  to  find  yourself." 

"That's  it,"  she  said.  "I've  got  to  try  to  find  out 
what  I  am.  If  my  thoughts  and  feelings  have  been 
misleading  me — well,  maybe  I  am  conventional — 
maybe  I  am  little — " 

Her  voice  broke.  Her  eyes  filled.  But  she  fought 
the  tears  back  and  still  faced  him. 

He  took  a  step  toward  her.    She  shook  her  head. 

He  went  out  then. 

And  when  the  outer  door  shut  she  dropped  limply 
on  the  couch-bed. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  WORM  PROPOSES  MARRIAGE  IN  GENERAL 

TWO  days  later,  on  Thursday,  the  Worm 
crossed  the  Square  and  Sixth  Avenue  and  en- 
tered Greenwich  Village  proper. 

He  was  dressed,  at  the  top,  in  a  soft  gray  hat 
from  England.  Next  beneath  was  a  collar  that  had 
cost  him  forty  cents.  The  four-in-hand  scarf  was 
an  imported  foulard,  of  a  flowering  pattern  in  blues 
and  greens ;  with  a  jade  pin  stuck  in  it.  The  new, 
perfectly  fitting  suit  was  of  Donegal  homespun  and 
would  cost,  when  the  bill  was  paid,  slightly  more 
than  sixty  dollars.  The  shoes,  if  not  custom  made, 
were  new.  And  he  carried  a  slender  stick  with  a 
curving  silver  head. 

He  felt  uncomfortably  conspicuous.  His  nerves 
tingled  with  an  emotional  disturbance  that  ignored 
his  attempts  to  dismiss  it  as  something  beneath 
him.  For  the  first  time  in  nearly  a  decade  he 
was  about  to  propose  marriage  to  a  young  woman. 
As  he  neared  the  street  on  which  the  young  woman 

172 


MARRIAGE   IN    GENERAL  173 

lived,  his  steps  slackened  and  his  mouth  became  un- 
comfortably dry.  .  .  .  All  this  was  absurd,  of 
course.  He  and  Sue  were  good  friends.  "There 
needn't  be  all  this  excitement,"  he  told  himself  with 
a  desperate  clutching  at  the  remnants  of  his  sense  of 
humor,  "over  suggesting  to  her  that  we  change  from 
a  rational  to  an  irrational  relationship." 

At  the  corner,  however,  he  stopped  dead.  Then 
with  a  self-consciousness  worthy  of  Peter  himself, 
he  covered  his  confusion  by  buying  an  afternoon 
paper  and  walking  slowly  back  toward  Sixth  Av- 
enue. 

Suddenly,  savagely,  he  crumpled  the  paper  into  a 
ball,  threw  it  into  the  street,  strode  resolutely  to 
Sue's  apartment-house  and  rang  her  bell. 

Sue  promptly  lighted  the  alcohol  lamp  under  her 
kettle  and  they  had  tea.  Over  the  cups,  feeling 
coldly  desperate,  the  Worm  said : 

"Been  thinking  you  all  over,  Sue."  It  was  a  relief 
to  find  that  his  voice  sounded  fairly  natural. 

She  took  the  remark  rather  lightly.  "I'm  not 
worth  it,  Henry.  .  .  .  I've  thought  some  myself 
— your  idea  of  the  boundary.  .  .  ." 

His  thoughts  were  moving  on  with  disconcerting 
rapidity.  He  must  take  the  plunge.  It  was  his  fate. 
He  knew  it. 


174  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"We  talked  marriage,"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"Since  then  I've  tried  to  figure  out  what  I  do 
think,  and  crystallize  it.  Sue,  I'm  not  so  sure  that 
Betty  was  wrong." 

"That's  a  new  slant,"  said  she  thoughtfully. 

"Or  very  old.  Just  try  to  look  through  my  eyes 
for  a  moment.  Betty  had  tried  freedom — had  some- 
thing of  a  fling  at  it.  Now,  it  is  evident  that  in  her 
case  it  didn't  work  very  well.  Isn't  it  ?" 

"In  her  case,  yes,"  Sue  observed  quietly. 

"Precisely,  in  her  case.  She  had  reached  the 
boundary.  You'll  admit  that?" 

Sue  smiled  faintly  at  his  argumentative  tone. 
"Yes,  I'll  admit  it." 

"Betty  isn't  a  great  soul.  A  stronger  nature 
would  have  taken  longer  to  reach  the  boundary. 
But  doesn't  it  indicate  that  the  boundary  is  there?" 

"Well"— Sue  hesitated.  "All  right.  For  the  sake 
of  the  argument  I'll  admit  that,  too." 

"Well,  now,  just  what  has  Betty  done?  She 
doesn't  love  this  manufacturer  she  has  married." 

"Not  a  bit." 

"And  the  marriage  may  fail.  The  majority  of 
them,  from  an  idealistic  point  of  view,  undoubtedly 
do  fail.  Admitting  all  that,  you  have  let  me  see 


MARRIAGE    IN    GENERAL  175 

that  you  yourself  in  a  weak  moment  have  considered 
the  same  course." 

Sue's  brow  clouded.    But  she  nodded  slowly. 

"Well,  then" — he  hitched  forward  in  his  chair, 
and  to  cover  his  burning  eagerness  talked,  if  possi- 
ble, a  shade  more  stiffly  and  impersonally — "doesn't 
this,  Betty's  act  and  your  momentary  consideration 
of  the  same  act,  suggest  that  a  sound  instinct  may  be 
at  work  there  ?" 

"If  cowardice  is  an  instinct,  Henry." 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  cowardice  ?  From  what 
data  do  you  get  that  conclusion?  Betty,  after  all 
her  philandering,  has  undertaken  a  definite  con- 
tract. It  binds  her.  It  is  a  job.  There  is  discipline 
in  it,  a  chance  for  service.  It  creates  new  condi- 
tions of  life  which  will  certainly  change  her  unless 
she  quits.  Haven't  you  noticed,  all  your  life,  what  a 
relief  it  is  to  get  out  of  indecision  into  a  definite 
course,  even  if  it  costs  you  something?" 

Again  that  faint  smile  of  hers.  "Turning  con- 
servative, Henry?" 

He  ignored  this.  "Life  moves  on  in  epochs,  Sue. 
If  you  don't  start  getting  educated  when  you're  a 
youngster,  you  go  most  awfully  wrong.  If  you 
don't  accept  the  discipline  of  work  as  soon  as  you've 
got  a  little  education  and  grown  up,  you're  a  slackej 


176  THE   TRUFFLERS 

and  before  long  you're  very  properly  rated  as  a 
slacker.  So  with  a  woman — given  this  wonderful 
function  of  motherhood  and  the  big  emotional  ca- 
pacity that  goes  with  it — if  she  waits  too  long  after 
her  body  and  spirit  have  ripened  she  goes  wrong, 
emotionally  and  spiritually.  There's  a  time  with 
a  normal  woman  when  love  and  maternity  are — well, 
the  next  thing.  Not  with  every  woman  of  course. 
But  pretty  certainly  with  the  woman  who  reaches 
that  time,  refuses  marriage,  and  then  is  forced  to 
admit  that  her  life  isn't  working  out.  Peter  has 
coined  the  word  for  what  that  woman  becomes 
— a  better  word  than  he  himself  knows  .  .  .  she's 
a  truffler." 

She  was  gazing  at  him.  "Henry,"  she  cried, 
"what  has  struck  you  ?  .Where's  that  humorous  bal- 
ance of  yours?" 

"I'm  in  earnest,  Sue." 

"Yes,  I  see.    But  why  on  earth — " 

"Because  I  want  you  to  marry — " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  Worm's  small 
courage  fled  utterly  out  of  his  inexperienced  heart. 
And  his  tongue,  as  if  to  play  a  saturnine  trick  on 
that  heart,  repeated  the  phrase,  unexpectedly  to 
what  was  left  of  his  brain,  with  an  emphatic  down- 
ward emphasis  that  closed  the  discussion. 


MARRIAGE    IN    GENERAL  177 

"I  want  you  to  marry,"  he  said. 

A  sudden  moisture  came  to  Sue's  eyes,  and  much 
of  the  old  frankness  as  she  surveyed  him. 

"Henry,"  she  said  then,  "you  are  wonderful, 
coming  at  me  like  this,  as  if  you  cared — " 

"I  do  care—" 

"I  know.  I  feel  it.  Just  when  I  thought  friends 
were — well  .  .  .  She  did  not  finish  this,  but 
sat  erect,  pushed  her  teacup  aside  and  gazed  at  him 
with  something  of  the  old  alertness  in  the  green- 
brown  eyes.  There  was  sudden  color  in  her  cheeks. 
"Henry,  you've  roused  me — just  when  I  thought  no 
one  could.  I've  got  to  think.  .  .  .  You  go 
away.  You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?  Just  let  me  be  alone. 
I've  felt  lately  as  if  I  was  losing — my  mind,  my  will, 
my  perceptions — something.  And,  Henry — wait!" 
For  he  had  risen,  with  a  blank  face,  and  was  look- 
ing for  his  hat. 

"Wait — did  Peter  leave  you  his  itinerary  ?" 

The  Worm  felt  in  his  pockets  and  produced  it. 

"He  sent  me  one,  but  I  tore  it  up."  She  laughed 
a  little,  then  colored  with  a  nervous  suddenness ;  and 
walked  after  him  to  the  door.  "You've  always  had 
the  faculty  of  rousing  me,  Henry,  and  steadying 
me.  To-day  you've  stirred  me  more  than  you  could 
possibly  know.  I  don't  know  what  will  come  of  it 


178  THE   TRUFFLERS 

— I'm  dreadfully  confused — but  I  can  at  least  try  to 
think  it  out" 

That  was  all — all  but  a  few  commonplace  phrases 
at  the  door. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  with  a  touch  of  awkwardness,  "I 
meant  to  tell  you  that  I've  made  a  change  myself." 

"You?"  Again  her  eyes,  recalled  to  him,  ran 
over  his  new  clothes. 

"I  start  work  to-morrow,  on  The  'Evening 
Courier." 

"Oh,  Henry,  I'm  glad.  Good  luck!  It  ought  to 
be  interesting." 

"At  least,"  said  he  heavily,  "it  will  be  a  slight 
contact  with  reality ;"  and  hurried  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ENTER   GRACE   DERRING 

TRUFFLER"  opened  at  Albany.  Be- 
fore  ten  o'clock  of  that  first  evening  even 
the  author  knew  that  something  was  wrong  with 
the  second  act. 

The  company  wandered  across  New  York  State 
into  Pennsylvania ;  Peter,  by  day  and  night,  rewrit- 
ing that  unhappy  act.  The  famous  producer,  Max 
Neuerman,  fat  but  tireless,  called  endless  rehearsals. 
There  was  hot  coffee  at  one  A.  M.,  more  hot 
coffee  at  five  A.  M.,  but  it  was  never  so  hot  as  the 
scalding  tears  of  the  leading  lady,  Miss  Trevelyan, 
who  couldn't,  to  save  her,  make  Peter's  lines  come 
real. 

There,  were,  also,  dingy  Eagle  Houses  and  Hotel 
Lincolns  where  soggy  food  was  hurled  at  you  in 
thick  dishes  by  strong-armed  waitresses. 

Finally,  Neuerman  himself  dictated  a  new  scene 
179 


180  THE   TRUFFLERS 

that  proved  worse  than  any  of  Peter's.  The  public- 
ity man  submitted  a  new  second-act  curtain.  The 
stage  manager  said  that  you  couldn't  blame  Miss 
Trevelyan ;  she  was  an  emotional  actress,  and  should 
not  be  asked  to  convey  the  restraint  of  ironic  comedy 
— in  which  belief  he  rewrote  the  act  himself. 

By  this  time,  the  second  act  had  lost  whatever 
threads  of  connecting  interest  it  may  have  had  with 
the  first  and  third;  so  Neuerman  suggested  that 
Peter  do  those  over.  Peter  began  this — locked  up 
over  Sunday  in  a  hotel  room. 

Then  Neuerman  made  this  announcement : 

"Well — got  one  more  string  to  my  bow.  Trevel- 
yan can't  do  your  play,  and  she's  not  good  enough 
to  swing  it  on  personality.  We're  going  to  try  some 
one  that  can." 

"Who,  for  instance?"  muttered  Peter  weakly. 

"Grace  Derring." 

We  have  spoken  of  Grace  Derring.  It  was  not  a 
year  since  that  tumultuous  affair  had  brought  Peter 
to  the  brink  of  self-destruction.  And  that  not  be- 
cause of  any  coldness  between  them.  Not  exactly. 
You  see — well,  life  gets  complicated  at  times.  You 
are  not  to  think  harshly  of  Peter;  for  your  city 
bachelor  does  not  inhabit  a  vacuum.  There  have 
usually  been — well,  episodes.  Nor  are  you  to  feel 


ENTER  GRACE  DERRING    181 

surprise  that  Peter's  face,  in  the  space  of  a  moment, 
assumed  an  appearance  of  something  near  helpless 
pain. 

So  Grace  Derring  was  to  be  whirled  back  into  his 
life — caught  up  out  of  the  nowhere,  just  as  his  de- 
votion to  Sue  had  touched  exalted  heights ! 

The  voice  of  the  fat  manager  was  humming  in 
his  ears. 

"She  made  good  for  us  in  The  Buzzard.  Of 
course  her  work  in  The  Gold  Heart  has  put  her 
price  up.  But  she  has  the  personality.  I  guess 
we've  got  to  pay  her." 

Peter  started  to  protest,  quite  blindly.  Then,  tell- 
ing himself  that  he  was  too  tired  to  think  (which 
was  true),  he  subsided. 

"Can  you  get  her?"  he  asked  cautiously. 

"She's  due  here  at  five-thirty." 

Peter  slipped  away.  Neuerman  had  acted  with- 
out consulting  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  should 
be  angry.  But  he  was  merely  dazed. 

He  walked  the  streets,  a  solitary,  rather  elegant 
figure,  conspicuously  a  New  Yorker,  swinging  his 
stick  savagely  and  occasionally  muttering  to  himself. 
He  roved  out  to  the  open  country.  Maple  buds 
were  sprouting.  New  grass  was  pushing  upward 
into  the  soft  air.  The  robins  were  singing.  But 


182  THE   TRUFFLERS 

there  were  neither  buds  nor  robins  in  Peter's  heart. 
He  decided  to  be  friendly  with  Grace,  but  reserved. 

It  was  nearly  six  when  he  entered  the  barnlike 
office  of  the  hotel,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  full  of  him- 
self. Then  he  saw  her,  registering  at  the  desk. 

He  had  stopped  short.  He  could  not  very  well 
turn  and  go  out.  She  might  see  him.  And  he  was 
not  afraid. 

She  did  see  him.  He  raised  his  hat.  Their  hands 
met — he  extremely  dignified,  she  smiling  a  very 
little. 

".Well,  Peter!" 

"'You're  looking  well,  Grace." 

"Ami?" 

They  moved,  tacitly,  into  the  adjoining  parlor 
and  stood  by  the  window. 

"I  thought — "  he  began. 

"What  did  you  think,  Peter?"  Jhen,  before  he 
could  reply,  she  went  on  to  say :  "I've  been  working 
through  the  Middle  West.  Closed  in  Cincinnati  last 
week." 

"Had  a  hard  season  ?" 

"Hard — yes."  She  glanced  down  at  a  large  en- 
velope held  under  her  arm.  "Mr.  Neuerman  sent 
your  play.  I've  just  read  it — on  the  train." 

"Oh,  you've  read  it?" 


ENTER  GRACE  DERRING    183 

"Yes."  Again  that  hint  of  a  smile.  Peter's  eyes 
wandered  about  the  room.  "It's  funny,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"What's  funny  ?"  said  he  severely. 

"I  was  thinking  of  this  play."  She  took  it  out  of 
the  envelope  and  rapidly  turned  the  typewritten 
pages.  "So  bachelor  women  are — what  you  call 
'trufflers,'  Peter!" 

"It  is  quite  impersonal,  Grace." 

"Oh,  of  course — a  work  of  art — " 

Not  clear  what  that  twisted  little  smile  of  hers 
meant,  he  kept  silent. 

"Oh,  Peter!"  she  said  then,  and  left  him.  Every- 
thing considered,  he  felt  that  he  had  handled  it 
rather  well. 

This  was  Tuesday.  It  was  arranged  that  Miss 
Derring  should  make  her  first  appearance  Thurs- 
day night.  Meantime,  she  was  to  get  up  her  part  and 
watch  the  play  closely  with  the  idea  of  possible  sug- 
gestions. Peter  kept  austerely  aloof,  working  day 
and  night  on  the  revision  of  Acts  I  and  III.  Neuer- 
man  and  Miss  Derring  consulted  together  a  good 
deal.  On  Thursday,  Peter  caught  them  at  the 
luncheon  table,  deep  in  a  heap  of  scribbled  sheets  of 
paper  that  appeared  to  be  in  Grace's  large  hand. 


184  THE    TRUFFLERS 

They  urged  him  to  join  them,  but  he  shook  his  head. 
He  did  agree,  however,  to  sit  through  the  rehearsal, 
later  in  the  afternoon. 

Thus  it  was  that  he  found  himself  seated  next  to 
Grace  in  one  of  the  rear  rows  of  a  dim  empty  the- 
ater, all  but  lost  in  the  shadows  under  the  balcony. 
Neuerman  left  them,  and  hurried  down  to  the  stage 
to  pull  his  jaded  company  together. 

It  seemed  to  Peter  that  they  were  very  close,  he 
and  Grace,  there  in  the  shadow.  He  could  feel  her 
sleeve  against  his  arm.  He  wished  Neuerman 
would  come  back. 

Unexpectedly  to  himself,  Peter  started  nervously. 
His  hat  slipped  from  his  knees.  He  caught  it.  His 
hand  -brushed  Grace's  skirt,  then  her  hand.  Slowly 
their  fingers  interlocked. 

They  sat  there,  minute  after  minute,  without  a 
sound,  her  fingers  tight  in  his.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
threw  an  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  tried  to  kiss 
her.  With  a  quick  little  rustle,  she  pressed  him  back. 

"Don't,"  she  whispered.    "Not  here." 

So  Peter  leaned  back  and  sat  very  still  again, 
holding  her  hand  down  between  the  two  seats. 

Finally  the  rehearsal  was  over.  They  evaded  the 
manager  and  walked.  There  was  a  river  in  this 
town,  and  a  river  road.  Peter  sought  it.  And  out 


ENTER    GRACE    DERRING  185 

there  in  the  country,  with  buds  and  robins  all  about 
them  and  buds  and  robins  in  his  heart,  he  kissed  her. 
He  knew  that  there  had  never  been  any  woman  in 
all  the  world  but  Grace,  and  told  her  so.  All  of  his 
life  except  the  hours  he  had  spent  with  her  faded 
into  an  unreal  and  remote  dream. 

Grace  had  something  on  her  mind.  But  it  was  a 
long  time  before  she  could  bring  Peter  to  earth. 
Finally  he  bethought  himself. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  said — they  were  strolling 
hand  in  hand — "here  it  is  after  seven !  You've  had 
no  dinner — and  you're  going  on  to-night." 

"Not  to-night,  Peter.     Not  until  Monday." 

"But— but— " 

"Mr.  Neuerman  and  I  have  been  trying  to  ex- 
plain what  we  were  doing,  but  you  wouldn't  listen. 
Peter,  I've  made  a  lot  of  suggestions  for  the  part. 
He  asked  me  to.  I  want  your  approval,  of  course. 
I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  show  you  what  I've  done." 
But  Peter  heard  only  dimly.  Near  the  hotel,  she 
left  him,  saying,  with  a  trace  of  anxiety:  "I  don't 
want  to  see  you  again,  Peter,  until  you  have  read  it. 
Look  me  up  for  lunch  to-morrow,  and  tell  me  if  you 
think  I've  hurt  your  play." 

Neuerman  came  to  him  late  that  night  with  a 
freshly  typed  manuscript.  He  tried  to  read  it,  but 


186  THE    TRUFFLERS 

the  buds  and  robins  were  still  alive,  the  play  a  stale 
dead  thing. 

Friday  morning,  there  was  a  letter  for  Peter,  ad- 
dressed in  Sue's  hand.  The  sight  of  it  confused 
him,  so  that  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  did  not  open 
it  until  after  his  solitary  breakfast.  It  had  the  ef- 
fect of  bringing  Sue  suddenly  to  life  again  in  his 
heart  without,  at  first,  crowding  Grace  out. 

"It's  love  that  is  the  great  thing,"  he  thought,  ex- 
plaining the  phenomenon  to  himself.  "The  object 
of  it  is  an  incident,  after  all.  It  may  be  this  woman, 
or  that — or  both.  But  the  creative  artist  must  have 
love.  It  is  his  life." 

Then  he  read  Sue's  letter;  and  pictures  of  her 
arose.  It  began  to  appear  to  him  that  Sue  had  in- 
spired him  as  Grace  never  had.  Perhaps  it  was 
Sue's  youth.  Grace,  in  her  way,  was  as  honest  as 
Sue,  but  she  was  not  so  young.  And  the  creative 
artist  must  have  youth,  too ! 

The  letter  was  brief. 

"Could  you,  by  any  chance,  run  back  to  New  York 
Saturday — have  tea  with  me?  I  want  you  here. 
Come  about  four." 

But  it  fired  his  imagination.  It  was  like  Sue  to 
reach  out  to  him  in  that  abrupt  way,  explaining 
nothing. 


ENTER  GRACE  DERRING     187 

Then  he  settled  down  in  his  room,  a  glow  in  his 
heart,  to  find  out  just  what  Grace  and  Neuerman 
had  done,  between  them,  to  The  Truffler. 

At  noon  that  day  a  white  Peter,  lips  trembling, 
very  still  and  stiff,  knocked  at  Miss  Derring's  door. 

She  opened  it,  just  dressed  for  luncheon. 

"Oh,"  she  cried— "Peter!" 

"Here,"  said  he  frigidly,  "is  the  manuscript  of 
your  play." 

Her  eyes,  very  wide,  searched  his  face. 

"It  is  not  mine.    I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

"Oh,  Peter — please  don't  talk  like  this." 

"You  have  chosen  to  enter  into  a  conspiracy  with 
Neuerman  to  wreck  what  little  was  left  of  my  play. 
With  Neuerman!"  He  emphasized  the  name.  "I 
am  through." 

"But,  Peter — be  sensible.  Come  to  lunch  and  we'll 
straighten  this  up  in  five  minutes.  Nothing  is  being 
forced  on  you.  I  was  asked  .  .  ." 

"You  were  brought  here  without  my  knowledge. 
And  now — this !" 

He  strode  away,  leaving  the  manuscript  in  her 
hands. 

She  stood  there  in  the  door,  following  him  with 
bewildered  eyes  until  he  had  disappeared  around  a 
turn  in  the  hall. 


188  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Peter,  feeling  strongly  (if  vaguely)  that  he  had 
sacrificed  everything  for  a  principle,  packed  his  suit- 
case, caught  a  train  to  Pittsburgh,  and  later,  a 
sleeper  for  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   WORM    CONSIDERS  LOVE 

ZANIN  came  in  quietly,  for  him;  matter  of 
fact;  dropped  his  hat  on  the  couch;  stood 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  looked  down  at 
Sue  who  was  filling  her  alcohol  lamp. 

"Well,  Sue,"  said  he,  "it's  Saturday  at  four.  I've 
kept  my  part  of  the  agreement.  You  haven't  had  a 
word  from  me.  But" —  and  he  did  show  feeling 
here — "you  are  not  to  think  that  it  has  been  easy. 
We've  talked  like  sensible  people,  you  and  I,  but  I'm 
not  sensible."  Still  she  bent  over  the  lamp.  "So 
you'd  better  tell  me.  Are  we  starting  off  together 
to-night?" 

"Don't  ask  me  now,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  come,  Sue.     Now,  really!" 

She  straightened  up.  "I'm  not  playing  with  you, 
Jacob.  I  promised  to  answer  you  to-day." 

"Well— why  don't  you ?    Now.    Why  wait?" 

"Because  I  don't  know  yet." 

"But  good  God,  Sue!  If  you  don't  know  yet — " 
189 


190  THE    TRUFFLERS 

She  threw  out  her  hands. 

He  dropped  into  a  chair ;  studied  her  gloomily. 

Then  the  bell  rang  and  Peter  came  in.  And  Sue 
faced  two  grave  silent  men. 

"First,"  she  said,  as  briskly  as  she  could,  "we  shall 
have  tea." 

This  much  accomplished  and  the  biscuits  distrib- 
uted, she  curled  herself  up  on  the  couch.  "Now," 
she  said,  "this  has  been  a  difficult  week.  And  I  can 
see  only  one  thing  to  do.  The  Nature  Film  Com- 
pany is  in  a  bad  way." 

For  the  first  time  the  two  men  looked  squarely  at 
each  other.  Sue,  her  color  up,  a  snap  in  her  eyes, 
suppressed  a  perverse  impulse  to  laugh,  and  steadied 
herself. 

"Here  we  are,"  she  went  on.  "I've  been  worn 
out — no  good  for  weeks.  You  men  are  fighting 
each  other — oh,  yes,  you  are ! — and  yet  we  three  are 
the  ones  that  have  got  to  do  it.  Now,  Jacob,  you 
have  hinted  at  new  expenses,  new  money  problems, 
to  me.  I  want  you  to  say  it  all  to  Peter.  Every 
word.  Wait,  please !  And,  Peter,  you  have  felt  that 
Jacob  was  inclined  to  run  wild.  Say  it  to  him."  She 
wound  up  in  a  nervous  little  rush  and  stopped  short 
as  if  a  thought  frightened — "And  as  for  me,  it's  not 
a  question  of  what  I  will  or  won't  do.  I'm  afraid, 


THE   .WORM    CONSIDERS   LOVE    191 

if  we  don't  straighten  things  out,  it's  going  to  be  a 
question  what  I  shall  be  able  to  do.  We  must  get  all 
this — what  do  you  say? — 'on  the  carpet.'  Please 
begin!" 

She  sank  back,  drew  a  long  breath  and  watched 
them  with  eyes  in  which  there  was  a  curious  nervous 
alertness. 

More  than  Sue  could  have  dreamed,  it  was  a  situ- 
ation made  to  Peter's  hand.  Without  a  moment's 
warning  she  had  called  on  him  to  play,  in  some 
small  degree,  the  hero.  She  had  given  him  the 
chance  to  be  more  of  a  hero  than  Zanin.  His  very 
soul  glowed  at  the  thought  Given  an  audience, 
Peter  could  be  anything. 

So  it  turned  out  that  just  as  Zanin  gave  an  odd 
little  snort,  caught  squarely  between  impatience  and 
pride,  Peter  turned  on  him  and  said,  very  simply : 

"Sue  is  right,  Zanin.  We  have  been  knifing  each 
other.  And  I'm  ashamed  to  say  that  I  haven't  even 
had  the  sense  to  see  that  it  wasn't  business."  And 
he  put  out  his  hand. 

Zanin  hesitated  a  faint  fraction  of  a  second  and 
took  it. 

Then  Peter — sure  now  that  he  knew  how  the  late 
J.  P.  Morgan  must  have  felt  about  things,  full  of 
still  wonder  at  himself  and  touched  by  the  wistful 


192  THE   TRUFFLERS 

thought  that  had  he  chosen  differently  in  youth  he 
might  easily  have  become  a  master  of  men — hit  on 
the  compromise  of  giving  full  play  to  Zanin's  genius 
for  publicity,  provided  Zanin,  for  his  part,  submit- 
ted to  a  budget  system  of  expenditure. 

"And  a  pretty  small  budget,  too,"  he  added. 
"We've  got  to  do  it  with  brains,  Zanin,  as  you  did 
things  at  the  Crossroads." 

This  settled,  however,  a  silence  fell.  Each  of  the 
three  knew  that  nothing  had  been  settled.  Sue,  that 
quiet  light  in  her  eyes,  watched  them. 

Then  suddenly,  with  her  extraordinary  lightness 
of  body,  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  Peter,  all  nerves, 
gave  a  start.  Zanin  merely  followed  her  with  eyes 
— heavy  puzzled  eyes. 

Sue  picked  up  the  tea  kettle.  "One  of  you — • 
Peter — bring  the  tray !"  she  commanded  as  she  went 
out  into  the  dark  kitchenette. 

Peter,  with  a  leap  almost  like  Sue's,  followed.  He 
could  not  see  clearly  out  there,  but  he  thought  she 
was  smiling  as  she  set  down  the  kettle. 

"Sue,"  he  whispered,  still  in  the  glow  of  his  quiet 
heroism,  "I  knew  I  loved  you,  but  never  before  to- 
day did  I  realize  how  much."  No  one  could  have 
uttered  the  words  with  simpler  dignity. 

She  stood  motionless,  bending  over  the  kettle. 


THE    .WORM    CONSIDERS    LOVE     193 

"Something  has  happened  to-day,"  she  said  very 
low. 

"Sue — nothing  serious!     .     .     ." 

She  raised  her  head  now.  She  ivas  smiling. 
"How  much  do  you  want  me,  Peter  ?" 

"I  can  only  offer  you  my  life,  Sue,  dear." 

"Supposing — what  if — I — were — to  accept  it?" 

She  slipped  away  from  his  outstretched  arms 
then,  and  back  to  the  living-room.  Peter,  in  a  word- 
less ecstasy,  followed. 

"Jacob,"  she  said,  without  faltering.  "I  want 
you  to  congratulate  me.  Peter  and  I  are  going 
to" — she  gave  a  little  excited  laugh  now — "to  try 
marriage." 

The  Worm  wandered  into  the  Muscovy  for  din- 
ner. 

Sue  and  Peter  caught  him  there  just  as  he  was 
paying  his  check. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  not  caring  who  might  hear — 
"we  owe  a  lot  to  Henry.  Perhaps  everything.  In 
that  dreadful  mood  I  wouldn't  have  listened  to  rea- 
son from  any  one  else — never  in  the  world." 

"You  Worm,"  Peter  chuckled.  "Looks  like  a  lit- 
tle liquid  refreshment." 

So  the  Worm  had  to  drink  with  them,  but  con- 


194  THE    TRUFFLERS 

viviality  was  not  in  his  heart.  He  raised  his  glass ; 
looked  over  it,  grimly,  at  Peter.  "I  drink,"  he  said, 
"to  Captain  Miles  Standish." 

Peter  let  it  go  as  one  of  Henry  Bates'  quaint 
whimsies. 

But  Sue  looked  puzzled.  And  the  Worm,  sud- 
denly contrite,  got  away  and  walked  the  streets,  car- 
rying with  him  a  poignantly  vivid  picture  of  a  fresh 
girlish  face  with  high  color  and  vivid  green-brown 
eyes. 

After  a  while  he  tried  going  home,  weakly  wish- 
ing he  might  find  something  to  read;  instead  he 
found  Hy  Lowe  and  an  extremely  good-looking  girl 
with  mussed  hair.  They  fairly  leaped  apart  as  he 
came  stumbling  in. 

"We're  trying  a  new  step,"  panted  Hy  quite 
wildly.  "Oh,  yes,  this  is  Miss  Hilda  Hansen — 
Henry  Bates." 

The  .Worm  liked  the  way  she  blushed.  But  he 
suddenly  and  deeply  hated  Hy. 

The  Worm  went  out  and  sat  on  a  bench  in  the 
Square.  He  was  still  sitting  there  when  the  moon 
came  up  over  the  half-clothed  trees. 

Little  Italians  from  the  dark  streets  to  the  south- 
ward played  about  the  broad  walks.  Busses  rum- 
bled by  on  the  central  drive.  A  policeman  passed. 


THE    WORM    CONSIDERS    LOVE    195 

Full-breasted  girls  arm  in  arm  with  swarthy  youth- 
ful escorts  strolled  past.  One  couple  sat  on  his 
bench  and  kissed.  He  got  up  hurriedly. 

At  last,  rather  late  he  stood,  a  lonely  figure  under 
the  marble  arch,  gazing  downward  at  his  shoes,  his 
stick,  his  well  made,  neatly  pressed  trousers.  He 
took  off  his  new  hat  and  stared  at  it. 

The  policeman,  passing,  paused  to  take  him  in, 
then  satisfied  as  to  his  harmlessness,  moved  on. 

"Busy  day,  to-morrow,"  the  Worm  told  himself 
irrelevantly.  "Better  turn  in." 

He  saw  another  moon-touched  couple  approach- 
ing. He  kept  out  of  their  sight.  The  man  was  Hy 
Lowe,  dapper  but  earnest,  clutching  the  arm  of  his 
very  new  Miss  Hansen,  bending  close  over  her. 

The  Worm  watched  until  he  lost  them  in  the 
shadows  of  Waverley  Place.  Next,  as  if  there  were 
some  connection,  he  stared  down  again  at  his  own 
smart  costume. 

"Love,"  he  informed  himself,  "is  an  inflamma- 
tion of  the  ego." 

Then  he  went  home  and  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BUSINESS    INTERVENES 

THE  Worm  met  Sue  Wilde  one  afternoon  as 
she  stepped  down  from  a  Seventh  Avenue  car 
— carried  it  off  with  a  quite  successful  air  of  easy 
surprise.  He  couldn't  see  that  it  harmed  Peter  or 
anybody,  for  him  to  meet  her  now  and  then.  If  it 
gave  him  pleasure  just  to  see  her  walk — even  in  a 
middy  blouse,  old  skirt  and  sneakers,  she  was  grace- 
ful as  a  Grecian  youth! — to  speak  and  then  listen 
to  her  voice  as  she  answered,  to  glimpse  her  profile 
and  sense  the  tint  of  health  on  her  olive  skin,  whose 
business  was  it!  So  long  as  he  was  asking  nothing! 
Besides,  Sue  didn't  dream.  He  didn't  intend  that 
she  should  dream.  He  had  lied  to  her  with  shy  de- 
light regarding  his  set  habit  of  walking  every  after- 
noon. He  hated  walks — hated  all  forms  of  exercise. 
He  knew  pretty  accurately  when  she  would  be 
through  her  day's  work  at  the  plant  of  the  Inter- 
stellar Film  Company,  over  in  Jersey,  because  they 

196 


BUSINESS    INTERVENES  197 

were  doing  outside  locations  now,  and  outdoor  work, 
even  in  April,  needs  light.  He  knew  precisely  what 
trains  she  could  catch ;  had,  right  now,  a  local  time 
table  in  a  convenient  pocket.  Sue  was  an  outdoor 
girl  and  would  prefer  ferry  to  tube.  From  the  ferry 
it  was  car  or  sidewalk;  either  way  she  couldn't 
escape  him  unless  she  headed  elsewhere  than  toward 
her  dingy  little  apartment. 

To-day  he  walked  home  with  her. 

She  suggested  tea.  He  let  his  eyes  dwell  on  her 
an  instant — she  on  the  top  step,  he  just  below — and 
In  that  instant  he  forgot  Peter.  "All  right,"  said 
he,  a  pleasant  glow  in  his  breast,  "if  you'll  have  din- 
ner with  me.  They  have  a  fresh  lot  of  those  deep- 
sea  oysters  at  Jim's." 

Then  he  caught  her  hesitation  and  recalled  Peter. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  in  silence,  then:  "Don't 
let's  trade,"  she  said.  "Come  in  for  tea  anyway." 

He  followed  her  in,  reflecting.  Peter  or  no  Peter, 
it  disturbed  him  to  see  this  restraint  in  Sue  Wilde. 
He  felt  that  it  disturbed  her  a  little,  too.  It  was 
possible,  of  course,  that  this  was  one  of  the  evenings 
when  Peter  expected  to  appropriate  her.  The  Worm 
was  the  least  obtrusive  of  men,  but  he  could  be  stub- 
born. Then  and  there  he  asked  if  this  was  Peter's 
evening. 


198  THE    TRUFFLERS 

She  was  stooping  to  unlock  the  apartment  door. 
"No,"  she  replied  rather  shortly,  "he's  working  to- 
night." 

They  had  hardly  got  into  the  apartment  before 
the  bell  rang,  and  Sue  went  out  to  answer  it.  The 
Worm,  sandy  of  hair,  mild  of  feature,  dropped  into 
the  willow  armchair,  rested  elbows  on  knees,  sur- 
veyed the  half-furnished  living-room  and  smiled. 

In  a  mason  jar  on  the  mantel,  next  to  a  hit-or- 
miss  row  of  Russian  novels,  Havelock  Ellis's  Sex 
in  Relation  to  Society,  Freud  on  Dreams  and 
Psychanalysis,  and  two  volumes  of  Schnitzler's 
plays,  blazed  a  large  cluster  of  jonquils.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  mantel,  drooping  over  the  rim  of  a 
green  water  pitcher,  were  dusty  yellow  roses,  full 
blown,  half  their  petals  scattered  on  books,  mantel 
and  hearth,  their  scent  heavy  in  his  nostrils.  A  tin 
wash  basin,  on  the  mission  table  by  the  wall,  was 
packed,  smothered,  with  pansies — buff,  yellow,  or- 
ange, purple,  velvet  black.  A  bunch  of  violets  sur- 
mounted an  old  sugar  bowl  that  shared  with  cigar- 
ette boxes,  matches  and  an  ash  receiver,  the  tabouret 
by  the  couch-bed.  But  what  widened  the  Worm's 
faint  smile  into  a  forthright  grin,  square  and  huge 
on  the  table,  towering  over  the  pansies,  was  a  newly 
opened  five-pound  box  of  sweets. 


BUSINESS    INTERVENES  199 

Sue  came  in,  smiling  herself,  with  a  hint  of  the 
rueful,  bearing  before  her  a  long  parcel  with  square 
ends. 

"I'll  bet  it's  roses,"  observed  the  Worm. 

She  tore  off  the  paper,  opened  the  box  with  quick 
fingers — it  was  roses — deep  red  ones. 

She  took  a  chocolate,  nibbled  it;  then  stepped 
back,  laughing-  a  little  and  threw  out  her  hands. 
"Henry,"  she  cried,  "what  on  earth  am  I  to  do  with 
him!  I've  hinted.  And  I've  begged.  I'm  afraid 
I'll  hurt  him—" 

"You  would  go  and  get  engaged  to  him,  Sue. 
And  I  must  say  he  plays  the  role  with  all  his  might." 
After  which  remark,  the  Worm  produced,  scraped, 
filled  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"I'll  start  the  water,"  said  Sue;  then  instead, 
stood  gazing  at  the  flowers.  "It's  so — Victorian!" 

The  Worm  grinned  cheerfully.  "Peter  isn't  so 
easy  to  classify  as  that." 

"I  know."  She  reached  for  another  chocolate. 
"He  isn't  Victorian." 

"Not  all  the  time,  certainly.  And  not  all  over. 
Just  in  spots." 

Her  color  deepened  slightly.  "You've  never  read 
the  scenario  he  did  for  us,  Henry.  Nothing  Victo- 
rian about  that.  There's  a  ring  to  it — and  power. 


200  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Nobody  who  misses  the  modern  spirit  could  have 
written  it.  Not  possibly.  It's  the  real  battle  cry  of 
woman's  freedom.  And  a  blow  for  honesty !  It  is 
when  I  think  of  that — how  the  pictures  are  to  be 
shown  in  every  city  and  every  village,  all  over  this 
country — reaching  people  that  the  books  never  reach 
and  touching  their  emotions,  yes,  their  hearts  where 
feminist  speakers  and  such  just  antagonize  them — " 

The  sentence  died  out  in  mid-air.  Sue,  a  flash  in 
her  deep-green  eyes,  stared  out  the  window  at  the 
old  red  brick  walls  that  surrounded  the  score  of 
fenced-in  little  back  yards,  walls  pierced  with  hun- 
dreds of  other  rear  windows  and  burdened  with 
cluttered  fire-escapes,  walls  hidden  here  and  there 
by  high-hung  lines  of  washing. 

She  spoke  again.  "Don't  you  see,  Henry,  that's 
what  makes  this  miserable  business  worth  while, 
that's  what  justifies  it — all  this  posing  before  those 
camera  people,  working  with  hired  actors  that  don't 
for  a  moment  know  what  it's  all  about  and  don't 
understand  my  being  in  it  or  my  relations  with 
Peter  or  the  friendly  feeling  I  have  for  Zanin — it's 
getting  so  I  have  to  fight  it  out  with  myself  all  over 
again  every  morning  to  get  through  it  at  all.  But 
when  I'm  almost  hopelessly  stale  all  I  have  to  do  is 
come  home  here  and  shut  the  door  and  curl  ug  on 


BUSINESS    INTERVENES  201 

the  couch  and  read  the  thing  as  Peter  wrote  it — it 
brings  the  vision  back,  Henry ! — and  then  I  think  of 
him  staking  all  his  savings  to  make  it  a  success — 
Oh,  I  know  that's  personal,  just  for  me  .  .  ." 

Sue  was  having  some  trouble  with  sentences  to- 
day. This  one  didn't  get  finished  either.  She  stood 
there  brooding;  started  another  one:  "Henry,  Za- 
nin  couldn't  do  it — with  all  his  intelligence  and 
drive — it  took  Peter  to  phrase  Zanin's  own  ideas 
and  then  add  the  real  quality  to  them  and  form  and 
human  feeling — Zanin  is  cold,  an  intellectualist,  not 
an  artist  .  .  ."  Suddenly  she  broke  out  with 
this — "Of  course  this  marriage  means  a  long  series 
of  adjustments.  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that? 
Doesn't  every  marriage  ?" 

The  Worm  was  silent;  smoking  slowly  and 
watching  her.  He  was  thinking  very  soberly. 
"Whom  among  women  the  gods  would  destroy  they 
first  make  honest." 

Sue  felt  his  gaze  and  raised  her  chin  with  a  little 
jerk;  tried  to  smile;  finally  caught  up  the  box  of 
roses  and  buried  her  face  in  them. 

"Peter  oughtn't  to  spend  the  money,"  she  cried, 
not  unhumorously,  "but  it  is  dear  of  him.  Every 
time  I  come  into  the  room  the  flowers  sing  to  me." 

"After  all,"  said  he,  helping  her  put,  "it's  a  relief, 


202  THE   TRUFFLERS 

in  these  parts,  to  see  some  one  taking  marriage  seri- 
ously. Date  set  yet?" 

She  nodded. 

"Not  telling?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Soon?" 

She  nodded.    "That's  all.    No  more  questions." 

"Religious  ceremony  ?" 

"Hardly,  Henry."  She  was  a  thought  grim  about 
this. 

"You  can  be  as  rationalistic  as  you  like,"  said  he, 
musing,  "but  marriage  is  a  fairy  story.  Like  the 
old-fashioned  Christmas  with  tree  and  candles  and 
red  bells — yes,  and  Santa  Claus.  You  can't  ration- 
alize love,  and  you  can't  casualize  it.  Not  without 
debasing  it.  Love  isn't  rational.  It  is  exclusive, 
exacting,  mysterious.  It  isn't  even  wholly  selfish." 
His  tone  lightened.  "All  of  which  is  highly  hetero- 
dox, here  on  Tenth  Street." 

She  smiled  faintly  and  busied  herself  over  the  tea- 
kettle. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  that  Zanin  keeps  friendly,  Sue." 

She  sobered,  and  said:    "There,  it's  boiling." 

The  bell  sounded  again — two  short  rings,  a  pause, 
one  long  ring. 

She  started,  bit  her  lip.    "That's  Zanin  now,"  she 


BUSINESS    INTERVENES  203 

said.  "He  hasn't  been  here  since — "  She  moved 
toward  the  door,  then  hesitated.  "I  wish  you 
would—" 

She  bit  her  lip  again,  then  suddenly  went.  He 
heard  the  door  open  and  heard  her  saying :  "Henry 
Bates  is  here.  Come  in." 

Zanin  entered  the  room,  and  the  Worm  quietly 
considered  him.  The  man  had  a  vision.  And  he 
had  power — unhindered  by  the  inhibitions  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  conscience,  undisciplined  by  the  Latin 
instinct  for  form,  self-freed  from  the  grim  shackles 
of  his  own  ancestry.  He  wore  a  wrinkled  suit,  cot- 
ton shirt  with  rolling  collar,  his  old  gray  sweater  in 
lieu  of  waistcoat. 

He  drank  three  cups  of  tea,  chatted  restively, 
drummed  with  big  fingers  on  the  chair-arm  and 
finally  looked  at  his  watch. 

The  Worm  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and 
considered.  Just  what  did  Sue  wish  he  would  do? 
No  use  glancing  at  her  for  further  orders,  for  now 
she  was  avoiding  his  glances.  He  decided  to  leave. 

Out  on  the  sidewalk  he  stood  for  a  moment  hesi- 
tating between  a  sizable  mess  of  those  deep-sea  bi- 
valves at  Jim's  oyster  bar  and  wandering  back 
across  Sixth  Avenue  and  Washington  Square  to  the 
rooms.  It  wasn't  dinner  time ;  but  every  hour  is  an 


204  THE   TRUFFLERS 

hour  with  oysters,  and  Jim's  was  only  a  step.  But 
then  he  knew  that  he  didn't  want  to  eat  them  alone. 
For  one  moment  of  pleasant  self-forgetfulness  he 
had  pictured  Sue  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
oysters.  They  went  with  Sue  to-night,  were  dedi- 
cated to  her.  He  considered  this  thought,  becoming 
rather  severe  with  himself,  called  it  childish  senti- 
mentality ;  but  he  didn't  go  to  Jim's.  He  went  to  the 
rooms. 

When  he  had  gone  Zanin  hitched  forward  in  his 
chair  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  Sue  over  his  teacup. 

"What  is  it,  Jacob  ?"  she  asked,  not  facing  him. 

He  wasted  no  words.  "You  know  something  of 
our  business  arrangements,  Sue — Peter's  and  mine." 

She  nodded. 

"There's  a  complication.  When  we  formed  The 
Nature  Film  Company  we  had,  as  assets,  my  ideas 
and  energy  and  Peter's  money  and  theatrical  experi- 
ence. And  we  had  you,  of  course.  You  were  vital 
— I  built  the  whole  idea  around  your  personality." 

"Yes,  I  know,'*  she  broke  in  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience. 

"Peter  stood  ready  to  put  in  not  more  than  four 
to  five  thousand  dollars.  That  was  his  outside  fig- 
ure. He  told  me  that  it  was  nearly  all  he  had — and 
anyway  that  he  is  living  on  his  capital." 


BUSINESS   INTERVENES  205 

"I  know  all  that,"  said  she. 

"Very  good !"  He  put  down  his  teacup  and  spread 
his  hands  in  a  sweeping  gesture.  "Now  for  the  rest 
of  it.  Of  course  we  had  no  organization  or  equip- 
ment, so  we  made  the  deal  with  the  Interstellar  peo- 
ple. They  took  a  third  interest.  They  supply 
studio,  properties,  camera  men,  the  use  of  their  New 
Jersey  place  and  actors  and  hand  us  a  bill  every 
week.  Naturally  since  we  got  to  work  with  all  our 
people  on  the  outside  locations,  the  bills  have  been 
heavy — last  week  and  this — especially  this.  Before 
we  get  through  they'll  be  heavier."  He  drew  a 
folded  paper  from  his  pocket;  spread  it  out  with  a 
slap  of  a  big  hand ;  gave  it  to  her. 

"Why,  Jacob,"  she  faltered  and  caught  her  breath. 
"Eight  hundred  and—" 

He  nodded.  "It's  running  into  regular  money. 
And  here  we  are !  Peter  has  put  in  three  thousand 
already." 

"Three  thousand!" 

"More — about  thirty-two  hundred." 

"But,  Jacob,  at  this  rate—" 

"What  will  the  whole  thing  cost?  My  present 
estimate  is  twelve  to  fifteen  thousand." 

Sue  flushed  with  something  near  anger.  "This  is 
new,  Jacob !  You  said  three  or  four  thousand." 


206  THE    TRUFFLERS 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  face  was  im- 
passive. 

"It  was  as  new  to  me  as  to  you.  The  situation  is 
growing.  We  must  grow  with  it.  We've  got  a  big 
idea.  It  has  all  our  ideals  in  it,  and  it's  going  to  be 
a  practical  success,  besides.  It's  going  to  get  across, 
Sue.  We'll  all  make  money.  Real  money.  It'll 
seem  queer." 

Sue,  eyes  wide,  was  searching  that  mask  of  a  face. 

"But  here's  the  difficulty.  Peter  isn't  strong 
enough  to  swing  it.  Within  another  week  we'll  be 
past  his  limit — and  we  can't  stop.  He  can't  stop. 
Don't  you  see  ?" 

She  was  pressing  her  hands  against  her  temples. 
"Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  daze,  "I  see." 

"Well,  now."  He  found  a  cigarette  on  the  tabou- 
ret; lighted  it,  squared  around.  "The  Interstellar 
people  aren't  fools.  They  know  we're  stuck. 
They've  made  us  an  offer." 

"For  the  control?" 

He  nodded.  "For  the  control,  yes.  But  they 
leave  us  an  interest.  They'd  have  to  or  pay  us  good 
big  salaries.  You  see,  they're  in,  too.  It  means 
some  sacrifice  for  us,  but — oh,  well,  after  all,  it 
means  that  the  Nature  Film  has  a  value.  They'll 
"finance  it  and  undertake  the  distribution.  There's 


BUSINESS    INTERVENES  207 

where  we  might  have  come  a  cropper  anyway — the 
distribution.  I've  just  begun  to  see  that.  You  keep 
learning." 

She  was  trying  to  think.  Even  succeeding  after 
a  little. 

"Jacob,"  she  said,  very  quiet,  "why  do  you  bring 
this  to  me  ?" 

He  spread  his  hands.  "This  is  business,  now. 
I'll  be  brutal." 

She  nodded,  lips  compressed. 

"You  and  Peter — you're  to  be  married,  the 
minute  we  get  the  picture  done,  I  suppose." 

"But  that—" 

He  waved  at  the  flowers,  stared  grimly  at  the 
huge  box  of  candy.  "Peter's  an  engaged  man,  an 
idiot.  He's  living  in  1880.  I'm  the  man  who  of- 
fered you  love  with  freedom.  Don't  you  realize  that 
the  time  has  come  when  Peter  and  I  can't  talk.  It's 
the  truth,  Sue.  You  know  it.  You're  the  only  hu- 
man link  between  us.  Therefore,  I'm  talking  to 
you."  He  waited  for  her  to  reply ;  then  as  she  was 
still,  added  this  quite  dispassionately :  "Better  watch 
Peter,  Sue.  He's  not  standing  up  very  well  under 
the  strain.  I  don't  believe  he's  used  to  taking 
chances.  Of  course,  when  a  nervous  cautious  man 
does  decide  to  plunge — " 


208  THE   TRUFFLERS 

She  interrupted  him.  "I  take  it  you're  planning 
to  go  ahead,  regardless,  Jacob." 

"Of  course."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I've 
told  you — we  can't  stop.  Peter  least  of  all.  It's 
pure  luck  to  us  that  the'  Interstellar  folks  can't  stop 
either." 

"You  mean — if  they  could — we'd     .     .     ." 

"Fail?    Certainly.     Smash." 

Sue  felt  his  strength;  found  herself  admiring 
him,  as  she  had  admired  him  in  the  past — coldly, 
with  her  mind  only. 

"I  will  not  go  to  him  as  your  messenger,"  she 
said,  again  partly  angry. 

"All  right— if  you  won't!  Call  him—"  He 
waved  toward  the  telephone.  "Is  he  home  now  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"It's  a  partnership  for  him — a  good  offer — re- 
sponsible people.  See  here,  Sue,  you  must  be  made 
to  grasp  this.  We're  going  straight  on.  Got  to! 
The  problem  is  to  make  Peter  understand — the 
shape  he's  in,  frightened  to  death  ...  he 
won't  listen  to  me.  .  .  .  It's  up  to  you,  Sue. 
It's  a  job  to  be  handled.  I'm  trying  to  tell  you. 
One  way  or  another,  it's  got  to  be  broken  to  him  to- 
night. We've  got  precious  little  time  to  give  him 
for  his  nervous  upset  before  he  comes  around." 


BUSINESS    INTERVENES  209 

Sue  looked  at  him.  Her  hands  were  folded  in  her 
lap. 

"Well—  ?"  said  he. 

"Jacob,  you  shouldn't  have  come  to  me." 

"You  won't  even  call  him?" 

"No." 

"May  I?" 

"Of  course." 

He  got  up,  moved  toward  the  telephone,  hesitated 
midway,  changed  his  mind  and  picked  up  his  hat. 
Holding  it  between  his  hands  he  stood  over  her. 
She  waited.  But  instead  of  speaking,  he  went  out. 

She  sat  there  a  brief  time,  thinking;  went  over  to 
the  telephone  herself;  even  fingered  the  receiver; 
gave  it  up;  busied  herself  hunting  a  receptacle  for 
Peter's  roses,  finally  settling  on  an  earthenware 
crock. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PETER   GETS   A    NOTE 

THE  Worm  walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
across  to  Washington  Square  and  the  old 
brick  apartment  building. 

Peter  was  there — a  gloomily  intense  figure,  bent 
over  the  desk  at  the  farther  end  of  the  nearly  dark 
studio,  his  long  face,  the  three  little  pasteboard  bank 
books  before  him,  the  pad  on  which  he  was  figuring 
and  his  thin  hands  illuminated  in  the  yellow  circle 
from  the  drop  light  on  the  desk.  Just  behind  him 
on  the  small  table  was  his  typewriter,  and  there  were 
sheets  of  paper  scattered  on  the  floor.  He  lifted  his 
face,  peered  at  the  Worm  through  his  large  glasses, 
then  with  nervous  quickness  threw  the  bank  books 
into  a  drawer  which  he  locked.  He  tore  up  the  top 
sheet  of  the  pad;  noted  pencil  indentations  on  the 
sheet  next  under  it,  and  tore  that  up  too. 

"Hello!"  he  remarked  listlessly. 

"Hello!"  replied  the  Worm.  Adding  with  a 
210 


PETER    GETS    A    NOTE  211 

touch  of  self-consciousness :  "Just  had  a  cup  of  tea 
with  Sue." 

"Over  at  her  place  ?" 

The  Worm  nodded. 

"Any — any  one  else  there?" 

"Zanin  came  in." 

Peter  winced  and  whitened  a  little  about  the 
mouth ;  then  suddenly  got  up  and  with  an  exagger- 
ated air  of  casualness  set  about  picking  up  the  pa- 
pers on  the  floor.  This  done  he  strode  to  the  win- 
dow and  stared  out  over  the  Square  where  hundreds 
of  electric  lights  twinkled.  Suddenly  he  swung 
around. 

"It's  a  strain,"  he  said  in  a  suppressed,  clouded 
voice. 

"Doubtless,"  murmured  the  Worm,  reaching  for 
the  evening  paper. 

"Zanin  used  to  try  to — to  make  love  to  her." 

Some  effort  must  be  made  to  stem  this  mounting 
current.  "Oh,  well,"  said  the  Worm,  rather  hur- 
riedly, "you're  free  from  worry,  Pete." 

"God — if  I  were!"  muttered  the  eminent  mod- 
ernist. 

"But  you  are!  Good  lord,  man,  here  I've  just 
asked  her  to  have  dinner  with  me,  and  she  ducked. 
Wouldn't  even  eat  with  me." 


212  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"But—" 

"But  nothing!  It  was  flatly  because  she  is  en- 
gaged to  you." 

Peter  thought  this  over  and  brightened.  "But  sec 
here !"  he  cried — "I'm  not  a  Turk.  I'm  not  trying 
to  lock  her  up." 

The  Worm  was  silent. 

Peter  confronted  him;  spoke  with  vehemence. 
"Sue  is  free — absolutely.  I  want  her  to  be  free.  I 
wouldn't  have  it  otherwise.  Not  for  a  moment.  It's 
absurd  that  she  should  hesitate  about  dining  with 
you,  or — or" — this  with  less  assurance — "with  any 
man." 

Peter  walked  around  the  room,  stopping  again 
before  the  Worm  who  was  now  sitting  on  the  desk, 
looking  over  the  evening  paper. 

"Oh,  come  now !"  said  Peter.  "Put  up  that  paper. 
Listen  to  me.  Here  you  are,  one  of  my  oldest 
friends,  and  you  make  me  out  a  Victorian  monster 
with  the  woman  I  love.  Damn  it,  man,  you  ought 
to  know  me  better!  And  you  ought  to  know  Sue 
better.  If  her  ideas  are  modern  and  free,  mine  are, 
if  anything,  freer.  Yes,  they  are!  In  a  sense — in  a 
sense — I  go  farther  than  she  does.  She  is  marrying 
me  because  it  is  the  thing  she  wants  to  do.  That's 


PETER   GETS    A   NOTE  213 

the  only  possible  basis  on  which  I  would  accept  her 
love.  If  that  love  ever  dies"  .  .  .  Peter  was 
suddenly  all  eloquence  and  heroism.  Self-convinced, 
all  afire,  he  stood  there  with  upraised  arm.  And  the 
Worm,  rather  fascinated,  let  his  paper  drop  and 
watched  the  man  .  .  .  "If  that  love  ever  dies," 
the  impressive  voice  rang  on,  "no  matter  what  the 
circumstances,  engaged,  married,  it  absolutely  does 
not  matter,  Sue  is  free.  Good  God!  You  should 
know  better — you,  of  all  people!  You  know  me — • 
do  you  suppose  I  would  fasten  on  Sue,  on  that 
adorable,  inspired  girl,  the  shackles  of  an  old-fash- 
ioned property  marriage !  Do  you  suppose  I  would 
have  the  hardihood  to  impose  trammels  on  that  free 
spirit!" 

Carried  away  by  his  own  climax  Peter  whirled, 
snatched  up  the  desk  telephone,  called  Sue's  number, 
waited  tense  as  a  statue  for  the  first  sound  of  her 
voice,  then  said,  instantly  assuming  the  caressingly 
gentle  voice  of  the  perfect  lover:  "Sue,  dear,  hello ! 
How  are  you  ?  Tired  ?  Oh,  I'm  sorry.  Better  get 
out  somewhere.  .Wish  I  could  come,  but  a  job's  a 
job.  I'll  stick  it  out.  Wait  though !  Here's  Henry 
Bates  with  nothing  to  do.  I'm  going  to  send  him 
over  to  take  you  out — make  you  eat  something  and 


214  THE   TRUFFLERS 

then  walk  a  bit.  It's  what  you  need,  little  girl.  No, 
not  a  word !  I'm  going  to  ring  off  now.  He'll  come 
right  over.  Good-by,  dear." 

He  put  down  the  instrument,  turned  with  an  air 
of  calm  triumph.  "All  right,"  he  said  command- 
ingly.  "Run  along.  Take  her  to  the  Muscovy.  I 
may  possibly  join  you  later  but  don't  wait  for  me. 
I'll  tell  you  right  now,  we're  not  going  to  have  any 
more  of  this  fool  notion  that  Sue  isn't  free."  With 
which  he  sat  down  at  his  typewriter  and  plunged  into 
his  work. 

The  Worm,  taken  aback,  stared  at  him.  Then, 
slowly,  he  smiled.  He  didn't  care  particularly  about 
the  Muscovy.  It  was  too  self-consciously  "interest- 
ing"— too  much  like  all  the  semi-amateur,  short-lived 
little  basement  restaurants  that  succeed  one  another 
with  some  rapidity  in  the  Greenwich  Village  section. 
The  Worm  was  thinking  again  of  Jim's  exceedingly 
Anglo-Saxon  chop  house  and  of  those  salty  deep-sea 
oysters,  arrived  this  day.  At  the  Muscovy  you  had 
Russian  table-cloths  and  napkins.  The  tables  were 
too  small  there,  and  set  too  close  together.  You 
couldn't  talk.  You  couldn't  think.  He  wondered 
if  Peter  hadn't  chosen  the  place,  thus  arbitrarily, 
because  Sue's  friends  would  be  there  and  would  see 
her  enacting  this  freedom  of  his. 


PETER    GETS    A    NOTE  215 

Peter  \vas  now  pecking  with  a  rather  extraor- 
dinary show  of  energy  at  the  typewriter.  The 
Worm,  studying  him,  noted  that  his  body  was  rigidly 
erect  and  his  forehead  beaded  with  sweat,  and  began 
to  realize  that  the  man  was  in  a  distinct  state  of 
nerves.  It  was  no  good  talking  to  him — not  now. 
So,  meekly  but  not  unhumorously  obeying  orders, 
the  Worm  set  out. 

Sue  met  him  at  her  door  with  a  demure  smile. 

"Where  is  it?"  she  asked— "Jim's ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  His  face,  the  tone  of  his 
voice,  were  impenetrable.  There  was  not  so  much 
as  a  glimmer  of  mischief  in  his  quietly  expressive 
eyes;  though  Sue,  knowing  Henry  Bates,  looked 
there  for  it.  "No,"  he  said,  "we  are  to  go  to  the 
Muscovy." 

Peter,  meanwhile,  continued  his  frenzy  of  work 
for  a  quarter-hour;  then  slackened;  finally  stopped, 
sighed,  ran  his  long  fingers  through  his  hair,  and 
gloomy  again,  turned  wearily  around  to  the  desk,  un- 
locked his  own  particular  drawer,  brought  out  the 
three  bank  books  and  resumed  his  figuring  on  the 
pad.  If  you  could  have  looked  over  his  shoulder 
you  would  have  seen  that  his  pencil  faltered ;  that  he 
added  one  column,  slowly  and  laboriously,  six  or 
seven  times,  getting  a  different  result  each  time; 


216  THE   TRUFFLERS 

and  that  then,  instead  of  keeping  at  it  or  even  throw- 
ing the  book  back  into  the  drawer,  he  fell  to  marking 
over  the  figures,  shading  the  down  strokes,  elab- 
orating the  dollar  signs,  enclosing  the  whole  column 
within  a  two-lined  box  and  then  placing  carefully 
rounded  dots  in  rows  between  the  double  lines.  This 
done,  he  lowered  his  head  and  sighted,  to  see  if  the 
rows  were  straight.  They  were  not  satisfactory. 
He  hunted  through  the  top  drawers  and  then  on  the 
bookcase  for  an  eraser.  .  .  *  • !, 

There  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door. 

He  started,  caught  his  breath,  then  sank  back, 
limp  and  white,  in  his  chair.  At  the  third  knocking 
he  managed  to  get  up  and  go  to  the  door.  It  was 
a  messenger  boy  with  a  note. 

Peter  held  the  envelope  down  in  the  little  circle  of 
yellow  light  on  the  desk.  It  was  addressed  in  Zanin's 
loose  scrawl.  The  handwriting  definitely  affected 
him.  It  seemed  to  touch  a  region  of  his  nervous  sys- 
tem that  had  been  worn  quiveringly  raw  of  late. 
He  tore  the  envelope  open  and  unfolded  the  en- 
closure. There  were  two  papers  pinned  together. 
The  top  paper  was  a  bill  from  the  Interstellar  peo- 
ple for  eight  hundred  and  twenty  dollars  and  fifty 
cents.  The  other  was  in  Zanin's  hand — penciled : 


PETER   GETS   A   NOTE  217 

"It's  getting  beyond  us,  Mann.  They  offer  to 
carry  it  through  for  a  sixty  per  cent,  interest.  It's 
a  good  offer.  We've  got  to  take  it.  Come  over  to 
the  Muscovy  about  eight,  and  I'll  have  copies  of  the 
contract  they  offer.  Don't  delay,  or  the  work  will 
stop  to-morrow." 

Peter  carefully  unpinned  the  two  papers,  laid 
them  side  by  side  on  the  desk,  smoothed  them  with 
his  hands.  Doing  this,  he  looked  at  his  hands.  The 
right  one  he  raised,  held  it  out,  watched  it.  It  trem- 
bled. He  then  experimented  with  the  left.  That 
trembled,  too.  He  stood  irresolute ;  opened  the  three 
savings  bank  books — spread  them  beside  the  papers ; 
stared  at  the  collection  long  and  steadily  until  it  be- 
gan to  exert  a  hypnotic  effect  on  his  unresponsive 
mind.  He  finally  stopped  this;  stood  up;  stared  at 
the  wall.  "Still,"  ran  his  thoughts,  "I  seem  to  be 
fairly  calm.  Perhaps  as  a  creative  artist,  I  shall 
gain  something  from  the  experience.  I  shall  see 
how  men  act  in  utter  catastrophe.  Come  to  think  of 
it,  very  few  artists  ever  see  a  business  failure  at 
short  range.  This,  of  course,  borders  on  tragedy. 
I  am  done  for.  But  from  the  way  I  am  taking  this 
now  I  believe  I  shall  continue  to  be  calm.  I  must 
tell  Sue,  of  course  ...  it  may  make  a  difference. 
I  think  I  shall  take  one  stiff  drink.  But  no 


218  THE    TRUFFLERS 

more.  Just  the  one.  It  will  steady  my  nerves.  And 
I  won't  look  at  those  things  any  longer.  After  the 
drink  I  think  I  shall  take  a  walk.  And  I  shall  be  de- 
liberate. I  shall  simply  think  it  out,  make  my  de- 
cision and  abide  by  it." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

OYSTERS  AT  JIM^S 

SUE  and  the  Worm  had  no  more  than  seated 
themselves  at  the  Muscovy  when  Zanin  came 
briskly  in,  hat  in  hand — still  in  the  wrinkled  old 
suit,  still  wearing  the  gray  sweater  for  a  waistcoat 
— but  keen  of  face,  buoyant  even.  He  threaded  his 
way  between  the  tables,  nodding  here  and  there  in 
response  to  the  cries  of  "Hello,  Jacob!" — came 
straight  to  Sue,  and,  with  a  casual  greeting  for  the 
Worm,  bent  over  and  claimed  her  ear. 

"Sue/'  he  said  low;  "I  called  up,  then  took  a 
chance  on  finding  you  here.  I've  sent  the  bill  to 
Peter.  And  I've  told  him  of  the  break  in  our  plans. 
The  lawyer  for  the  Interstellar  people  is  coming  with 
the  new  contract — meets  me  up-stairs  in  the  club. 
I've  told  Peter  to  be  here  at  eight.  But  I've  got  to 
know  about  you.  Is  there  any  danger  that  you 
won't  go  through — finish  the  pictures?" 

219 


220  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"You  mean — in  case — " 

He  nodded.  "If  Peter  and  I  smash  up.  What- 
ever happens.  I  can't  see  ahead  myself.  But  the 
pictures  are  half  done,  and  they're  all  you.  It  would 
be  serious  if  you — " 

Sue  silenced  him  with  a  nervous  glance  about; 
compressed  her  lips ;  turned  her  fork  over  and  over 
on  the  table ;  then  slowly  nodded.  "I'll  finish,"  she 
said  very  soberly. 

"All  right,"  he  replied.  "I  knew  you  would,  of 
course.  But  I  had  to  ask.  Things  have  changed 
so.  ...  I'll  be  down  later." 

Sue  watched  him,  still  turning  the  fork  with  tense 
fingers,  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  door,  paused  for 
a  word  with  one  of  the  girl  waitresses — an  impov- 
erished young  writer  and  idealist,  Jewish,  rather 
pretty,  who  had  played  with  them  at  the  Crossroads 
— and  finally  disappeared  in  the  hall,  turning  back 
toward  the  stairway  that  led  up  to  the  rooms  of  the 
Freewoman's  Club. 

The  Worm  was  studying  the  menu.  He  waited 
until  her  eyes  and  her  thoughts  returned  to  the 
table,  then  looked  up  at  her  with  a  quiet  grin.  "How 
about  food,  Sue?"  said  he. 

She  gazed  at  him,  collected  her  thoughts,  looked 
down  at  the  card.  Then  she  made  an  effort  to  smile. 


221 

"Sorry,  Henry — I've  lost  my  appetite."  She  pressed 
the  edge  of  the  card  against  her  pursed  lips.  "Henry, 
let's  get  out — go  over  to  Jim's." 

He  shook  his  head.  "We  can't,"  he  said.  Then 
he  saw  her  gaze  narrow  'intently,  over  his  shoulder 
— so  intently  that  he  turned. 

Peter  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  peering  about 
the  room — a  repressed,  elaborately  self-contained 
Peter.  His  mouth  drooped  at  the  corners.  The 
lines  that  extended  downward  from  his  nose  were 
deeper  than  usual,  had  something  the  appearance  of 
being  carved  in  a  gray  marble  face. 

Peter's  gaze — he  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  focus 
his  eyes,  was  laborious  about  it — finally  rested  on 
their  table.  Slowly  he  got  through  the  crowd,  ap- 
proaching them.  He  jostled  one  of  the  girl  waiters ; 
and  turning,  apologized  with  rather  extraordinary 
formality.  The  girl  glanced  after  him,  curious. 

The  Worm  looked  around,  perceived  an  unoccu- 
pied chair  at  a  neighboring  table,  lifted  it  over  the 
heads  of  his  neighbors  and  set  it  down  beside  his 
own.  Peter  dropped  into  it,  saying,  "I'm  sorry  to 
disturb  you  two  .  .  .  something  has  come  up." 

The  Worm  found  it  rather  uncomfortable.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  withdraw  and  let  Peter  and  Sue 
talk.  But  people  were  looking  at  them;  there  were 


222  THE    TRUFFLERS 

audible  whispers;  he  decided  to  do  nothing  con- 
spicuous. He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  studied  the 
menu  again.  "I'll  know  the  thing  by  heart  pretty 
soon !"  he  thought. 

Peter  leaned  forward,  toward  Sue.  She  was 
watching  him  calmly,  the  Worm  thought;  but  she 
was  a  little  flushed.  There  was  no  escaping  the  con- 
versation that  followed.  Peter  managed  to  keep 
his  voice  fairly  low ;  but  it  was  plain  that  he  barely 
realized  where  he  was.  The  whole  engine  of  his 
mind — racing  now  at  several  thousand  R.  P.  M. — 
was  headed  inward. 

"We'll  have  to  quit  the  pictures,  Sue,  dear.  I 
can't  tell  you  the  whole  story  now — not  here — but 
Zanin  has  absolutely  broken  faith.  He  has  wrecked 
me  .  .  .  not  that  I  mind  that  .  .  .  it's  the 
crookedness  of  the  thing  .  .  .  the  ideals  he  pro- 
fessed .  .  .  he's  sold  us  out,  it's  a  dirty  commer- 
cial scheme  after  all  that  he's  dragged  you  into." 
.  .  .  The  inner  pressures  were  evident  now  in 
Peter's  voice.  It  was  still  low,  but  it  shook  and 
came  out  jerkily  and  huskily.  He  was  stopping  fre- 
quently to  swallow. 

Sue's  fingers  strayed  toward  the  fork;  turned  it 
slowly.  Her  eyes  followed  her  fingers.  A  waitress 


OYSTERS    AT   JIM'S  223 

came  toward  them,  stood  unnoticed  and  turned 
away,  exchanging  an  amused  glance  with  friends  at 
the  next  table. 

"It's  a  complete  smash,"  Peter  went  on.  "Any 
way  you  look  at  it,  it's  a  smash.  There's  just  that 
last  step  to  take — we  must  get  out." 

"Please — "  Sue  murmured,  "not  here!" 

"But,  Sue—" 

"Don't,  Peter.    We  can  talk  later." 

"But  there's  nothing  to  say."  Now  the  Worm 
caught  in  his  voice  Peter's  uncertainty  of  her.  "Is 
there,  Sue?" 

She  turned  and  turned  the  fork.  Peter's  eyes 
were  fastened  on  her  face,  hungrily,  abjectly.  She 
slowly  nodded. 

"But,  Sue,  you  and  I—" 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  faced  him.  "I've  got  to 
finish  the  pictures,  Peter." 

"Sue,  you  can't — " 

"I  simply  won't  talk  about  this  out  here.  But  it 
would  wreck  Jacob  if  I  stopped  now." 

It  seemed  to  the  Worm  that  Peter  had  to  make 
a  desperate  effort  to  comprehend  this.  His  brows 
were  knit,  his  eyes  wandering.  Finally  he  said: 
"But,  Sue,  good  God!  You  don't  understand. 
Zanin  has  wrecked  me." 


224  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"I'm  not  sure  about  that.  If  we  finish  the  pic- 
tures. If  we  don't — yes." 

Peter's  hands  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table.  "Sue 
— Zanin  has  been  talking  with  you !" 

"Please,  Peter — not  so  loud!" 

"Has  he  ?    Answer  me !" 

Slowly  she  nodded. 

"Are  you  playing  fair  with  me  ?" 

"Oh,  Peter— yes !    I  am." 

"You  are  still  engaged  to  be  my  wife?" 

"Yes.    Please,  Peter.    .    .    ." 

"Then" — the  moment  Henry  Bates  had  shrewdly, 
painfully  waited  as  he  watched  the  man,  came  now ; 
the  suppressions  that  had  been  struggling  within 
Peter's  breast  broke  bounds;  his  voice  suddenly 
rang  out — "then,  I  forbid  you  to  go  on!" 

Sue  paled;  seemed  to  sink  down  a  little  in  her 
chair;  knit  her  brows;  said  nothing. 

The  room  was  very  still.  Even  the  Greenwich 
Village  group  was  startled,  hushed,  by  the  queer 
sense  of  impending  drama  that  filled  the  room. 

During  the  long  hush  several  girls  went  out,  hur- 
riedly. Others  struggled  unsuccessfully  to  make 
talk.  One  laughed. 

Peter  looked  around  with  half-hearted  defiance, 


OYSTERS    AT   JIM'S  225 

then  dropped  his  eyes.  "Evidently,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing the  Worm  with  queer  precise  formality, 
"the  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  go.  I  am  not  desired 
here."  But  he  sat  motionless. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Zanin  came  in.  He  saw 
Peter,  crowded  bruskly  across  the  room,  laid  a 
legal  appearing  document  on  the  table  at  Peter's 
elbow  and  said :  "Look  this  over,  Peter,  and  meet 
me  tip-stairs  a  little  later.  Their  man  is  coming. 
They  give  us  no  choice — we  must  sign  to-night." 

Peter  squared  around  at  the  first  tones  of  the 
strong,  slightly  husky  voice,  drew  in  his  chin, 
scowled.  It  appeared  to  the  Worm  that  he  was 
making  a  desperate  effort  to  look  dignified.  But  at 
the  last  words,  Zanin  dropped  a  large  hand  on 
Peter's  shoulder.  That  was  what  made  the  trouble ; 
or  rather  what  set  it  off. 

I  have  explained  that  the  Muscovy  occupied  a 
basement.  The  ceiling  was  low.  The  tables — small 
ones  around  the  walls  and  two  longer  ones  across 
the  center  space  with  their  chairs  (common  kitchen 
chairs,  they  were)  filled  the  room  except  for  an 
opening  near  the  door.  In  the  opening,  at  one  side 
of  the  door,  was  the  small  table  that  served  as  a 
cashier's  desk..  It  was  covered  with  slips  of  paper 


226  THE   TRUFFLERS 

and  little  heaps  of  coin  and  some  bank  notes  under 
an  iron  paper-weight.  The  whole  in  charge  of  a 
meek  girl  with  big  spectacles. 

There  were  twenty-five  or  thirty  persons  in  the 
room — mostly  women  and  girls.  Of  the  four  or 
five  men,  two,  in  a  party  near  the  door,  were  paint- 
ers with  soft  curling  beards;  the  others,  young 
anarchists  and  talkers,  were  seated  over  in  the  far- 
ther corner  near  one  of  the  barred  front  windows. 

A  feature  of  the  scene  that  Henry  Bates  will 
never  forget  was  that  Peter  first  rose,  very  delib- 
erately, produced  an  eye-glass  case  from  an  inner 
pocket  and  carefully  put  his  glasses  away.  Then  he 
sprang  at  Zanin — apparently  not  striking  cleanly 
with  clenched  fists  but  clawing  and  slapping,  and 
shouting  breathlessly.  I  suppose  that  in  every  man 
who  has  been  a  boy  and  a  youth  there  is  a  strain  of 
vulgarity,  innate  or  acquired.  It  is  exhibited  when 
reason  flees.  Reason  had  certainly,  at  last,  fled 
from  Peter.  For  what  he  was  shouting  was  this — 
over  and  over — "A  Jew  won't  fight !  A  Jew  won't 
fight!" 

In  the  surprise  of  this  first  rush  Zanin  retreated, 
sparring  ineffectually;  backed  into  the  corner  of  a 
table;  crashed  over  it;  went  down  with  it  to  the 
floor  amid  broken  dishes,  steaming  food  and  the 


Zanin  went  down  amid  broken  dishes,  steaming  food  and  the 
wreckage  of  a  chair 


OYSTERS    AT    JIM'S  227 

wreckage  of  a  chair.  Two  young  women  were 
thrown  also.  One  of  them  screamed ;  the  other  ap- 
peared to  be  stunned,  and  the  Worm  somehow  got 
to  her,  lifted  her  up  and  supported  her  out  the  serv- 
ice door  to  the  kitchen. 

When  he  returned  the  panic  was  on.  Gasping  and 
shrieking,  various  hitherto  calm  young  women  whom 
nothing  in  life  could  surprise,  were  fighting  past  one 
another  for  the  door.  But  one  young  man,  pasty- 
faced,  longish  hair — name  of  Waters  Coryell — went 
through  the  struggling  group  like  a  thin  tornado, 
tearing  aside  the  women  that  blocked  his  way,  sym- 
bolizing, in  a  magnificent  burst  of  unself -conscious 
energy,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  with  a  sub- 
conscious eye,  doubtless  to  later  achievements  in 
self-expression.  .  .  .  The  Worm  saw  his  flight 
and  smiled.  He  had  heard  Waters  Coryell  expound 
the  doctrine  that  a  man  should  do  what  he  wants  to 
do.  "He  wants  to  get  out,"  mused  the  Worm. 

Peter  did  not  at  once  leap  upon  the  fallen  Zanin. 
He  first  cast  about  for  a  weapon.  At  Sue's  elbow 
was  a  large  water  pitcher.  He  seized  this  and  for 
a  moment  stood  over  his  opponent,  brandishing  it 
and  again  shouting,  "A  Jew  won't  fight  1"  He  was 
in  this  attitude  when  the  Worm  returned  from  the 
kitchen. 


223  THE    TRUFFLERS 

The  room  was  nearly  empty  now.  Over  at  the 
door,  the  meek  little  cashier  with  the  big  spectacles 
was  calling  out  in  a  sharp  small  voice,  "Pay  your 
checks,  please!  Pay  your  checks!"  And  one  girl, 
her  eyes  glassy  with  fright,  automatically  respond- 
ing to  the  suggestion,  was  fumbling  in  her  wrist 
bag,  saying,  "I  don't  seem  to  have  the  change." 

The  Worm  hesitated  for  a  moment  between  get- 
ting Sue  out  and  trying  to  stop  the  fight.  Sue  had 
pushed  back  her  chair  a  little  way  but  was  still  sit- 
ting there. 

At  this  moment  Zanin,  who  was  trying  to  draw 
himself  away  on  his  elbows  to  a  point  where  he 
could  get  up  in  reasonable  safety,  saw  an  oppor- 
tunity to  trip  Peter.  Instantly  he  put  the  idea  into 
effect.  Peter  went  down.  The  water  pitcher  was 
shattered  on  the  floor.  The  two  men  clinched  and 
rolled  over  and  over  among  the  chairs  .and  against 
the  legs  of  another  table. 

The  Worm  turned  to  Sue.  "You'd  better  get  out," 
he  said. 

She  was  quite  white.  "I  suppose,"  she  managed 
to  say,  "I'm  no  use  here." 

"Not  a  bit." 

He  took  her  arm  and  steadied  her  until  she  was 
clear  of  the  wreckage.  Every  one  else  had  got  out 


OYSTERS    AT   JIM'S  229 

now  excepting  the  girl  with  the  big  spectacles.  She 
stood  flattened  against  the  wall,  apparently  all  but 
unable  to  breathe.  As  Sue  Wilde  passed,  however, 
she  gasped  out,  "Check,  please!" 

The  Worm  snorted,  caught  Sue's  arm  again  and 
rushed  her  out  and  up  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk. 
Out  here  most  of  those  who  had  been  in  the  basement 
stood  about  in  groups.  Others,  street  children  and 
loungers,  were  appearing.  The  situation  was  ripen- 
ing swiftly  into  a  street  crowd  with  its  inevitable 
climax  of  police  interference.  "Move  away!"  said 
the  Worm  to  Sue.  "As  far  as  the  Square."  And 
he  spoke  to  others  whom  he  knew.  The  crowd 
thinned.  Then  making  a  wry  face  in  the  dim  light, 
the  Worm  headed  back  down  the  steps,  muttering, 
"Physical  prowess  is  not  my  specialty,  but  .  .  ." 

He  carefully  shut  the  street  door  after  him  and 
turned  the  key.  The  little  cashier  was  on  the  stairs 
now,  crouching  low  against  the  wall.  The  Worm 
half  listened  for  a  "Check,  please !"  as  he  came  down 
the  corridor ;  but  she  was  silent.  There  was,  too,  a 
suspicious  silence  in  the  dining-room.  The  Worm 
hurried  to  the  door. 

There,  just  within  the  door,  stood  Peter.  His 
right  coat  sleeve  had  been  ripped  nearly  off,  at  the 
shoulder  seam,  and  hung  down  over  his  hand.  He 


230  THE  TRUFFLERS 

was  fumbling  at  it  with  the  left  hand,  frantically 
trying,  first  to  roll  it  back,  then  to  tear  it  off.  Zanin, 
over  against  the  farther  wall,  was  getting  heavily 
to  his  feet.  He  paused  only  an  instant,  then  charged 
straight  at  Peter. 

One  glance  at  the  eminent  playwright  made  it 
plain  that  his  frenzy  already  was  tempered  with 
concern.  He  had  made,  it  appeared,  a  vital  miscal- 
culation. This  particular  Jew  would  fight — was, 
apparently,  only  just  beginning  to  fight.  There  was 
blood  on  Zanin's  cheek,  trickling  slowly  down  from 
a  cut  just  under  the  eye.  His  clothes,  like  Peter's, 
were  covered  with  the  dirt  of  the  floor.  His  eyes 
were  savage. 

Peter  again  groped  blindly  for  a  weapon.  His 
hand,  ranging  over  the  cashier's  table,  closed  on  the 
iron  paper-weight.  He  threw  it  at  the  onrushing 
Zanin,  missed  his  head  by  an  inch;  caught  des- 
perately at  a  neat  little  pile  of  silver  quarters ;  threw 
these ;  then  Zanin  struck  him. 

The  thing  was  no  longer  a  comedy.  Zanin,  a 
turbulent  hulk  of  a  man,  was  roused  and  dangerous. 
The  Worm  caught  his  arm  and  shoulder,  shouted  at 
him,  tried  to  wrench  the  two  apart.  Zanin  threw 
him  off  with  such  force  that  his  head  struck  hard 
against  the  wall.  The  Worm  saw  stars. 


OYSTERS    AT   JIM'S  231 

The  fighters  reeled,  locked  together,  back  into  -the 
dining-room,  knocked  over  the  cashier's  table  and 
fell  on  it.  Zanin  gave  a  groan  of  pain  and  closed 
his  big  hands  on  Peter's  neck. 

The  Worm  ran  up  the  stairs.  Three  men  were 
sitting,  very  quiet,  in  the  reading-room  of  the  Free- 
woman's  Club.  Waters  Coryell  dominated. 

"For  God's  sake,"  said  the  Worm  quietly,  "come 
down!" 

Waters  Coryell,  who  professed  anarchism,  sur- 
veyed him  coolly.  "The  thing  to  do,"  he  replied, 
"obviously,  is  to  telephone  the  police." 

"Telephone  your  aunt !"  said  the  Worm,  and  ran 
back  down-stairs. 

Peter  and  Zanin  were  still  on  the  floor,  at  grips. 
But  their  strength  seemed  to  have  flagged.  One 
fact,  noted  with  relief,  was  that  Zanin  had  not  yet 
choked  Peter  to  death.  They  were  both  purple  of 
face;  breathing  hard;  staring  at  each  other.  Some 
of  Zanin's  still  trickling  blood  had  transferred  itself 
to  Peter's  face  and  mixed  with  the  dirt  there. 

The  Worm  caught  up  a  chair,  swung  it  over  his 
head  and  cried,  in  deadly  earnest,  "You  two  get  up 
or  I'll  smash  both  your  heads!" 

They  glared  at  each  other  for  a  moment.  Then 
Zanin  managed  to  catch  enough  breath  to  say — 


232  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"But  the  man's  insane!" 

Peter  gulped.  "I  am  not  insane !  Nothing  of  the 
kind!" 

"Get  up,"  commanded  the  Worm. 

Very  slowly,  eying  each  other,  they  obeyed. 
Zanin  brushed  off  his  clothes  as  well  as  he  could  with 
his  hands ;  then,  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  the 
blood  on  his  face,  mopped  at  it  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. Peter  went  off  under  the  low-hanging  cen- 
ter chandelier  and  examined  with  a  pained  expres- 
sion, his  ruined  coat. 

There  were  steps  and  voices  on  the  stairs.  She 
of  the  big  spectacles  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  observed  Peter  with  breath- 
less formality,  "but  have  you  got  a  pin  ?" 

She  stared  at  him;  then  at  Zanin,  finally  at  the 
Worm. 

"There's  a  gentleman  up-stairs,"  she  said  mechan- 
ically in  a  lifeless  voice. 

The  Worm  went  up.  A  businesslike  young  man 
was  standing  in  the  upper  hall,  looking  about  him 
with  mild  curiosity. 

"Whom  did  you  wish  to  see?"  asked  the  Worm. 

"Mr.  Zanin  and  Mr.  Mann." 

"Oh — you  must  be  the  attorney  for  the  Interstel- 
lar people." 


OYSTERS    AT   JIM'S  233 

"I  am." 

"Come  this  way,"  said  the  Worm  with  calm,  and 
ushered  him  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  dining- 
room. 

Sue  was  sitting  alone  on  a  bench  in  Washing- 
ton Square.  She  saw  Henry  Bates  approaching  and 
rose  hurriedly  to  meet  him. 

"It's  all  over,"  said  he  cheerfully. 

"But,  Henry — tell  me — what  on  earth !" 

"No  particular  damage  beyond  what  court  plaster 
and  Peter's  tailor  can  fix  up." 

"But — but — how  is  it  over  so  soon?  What  are 
they  doing?" 

"When  I  left,  Zanin  was  entertaining  that  attor- 
ney chap." 

"And  Peter?" 

"Down  on  his  hands  and  knees  trying  to  find  the 
contract." 

"Is  he— will  he—" 

"Sign  it  ?  Yes.  They  want  you  to  sign,  too.  But 
I  told  them  you'd  do  it  in  the  morning.  You're  to 
have  a  ten  per  cent,  interest — Zanin  and  Peter  each 
fifteen." 

"But  I  don't  want—" 

"May  as  well  take  it.     You've  earned  it.    ... 


234  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Look  here,  Sue,  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  we — 
you  and  I — haven't  had  a  morsel  to  eat  yet  ?" 

She  started  in  genuine  surprise ;  looked  up  at  him 
with  an  intent  expression  that  he  could  not,  at  the 
moment,  fathom;  then  suddenly  threw  back  her 
head. 

"Henry,"  she  said,  a  ring  in  her  voice,  "I — I'm 
not  engaged  any  more — not  to  anybody !  I  want — " 
she  gave  a  slow  little  laugh — "some  oysters." 

"At  Jim's!"  he  cried. 

He  slipped  his  arm  through  hers.  Free-hearted  as 
the  birds  that  slumbered  in  the  trees  overhead  they 
strolled  over  to  the  congenial  oyster  bar. 

So  passed  The  Nature  Film  Producing  Co.,  Inc., 
Jacob  Zanin,  Pres't. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A   BACHELOR   AT   LARGE 

YOU  are  to  picture  Washington  Square  at  the 
beginning  of  June.  Very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing— to  be  accurate,  eight-fifty.  Without  the  old 
bachelor  apartment  building,  fresh  green  trees,  air 
steaming  and  quivering  with  radiation  and  evapora- 
tion from  warm  wet  asphalt,  rumbling  autobusses, 
endless  streams  of  men  and  girls  hurrying  eastward 
and  northward  to  the  day's  work  or  turning  into  the 
commercial-looking  University  building  at  our  right, 
and  hard  at  it,  the  inevitable  hurdy  gurdy;  within, 
seventh  floor  front,  large  dim  studio,  Hy  Lowe  but- 
toning his  collar  and  singing  lustily — • 

"I  want  si-im/^-athee, 
Si-ww/>-athee,  just  s^m/»-ah-thee !" 

The  collar  buttoned,  Hy,  still  roaring,  clasped  an 
imaginary  partner  to  his  breast  and  deftly  executed 
the  bafflingly  simple  step  of  the  hesitation  waltz 
over  which  New  York  was  at  the  moment,  as  Hy 

235 


236  THE   TRUFFLERS 

would  put  it,  dippy.  Hy's  eyes  were  heavy  and  red 
and  decorated  with  the  dark  circles  of  tradition,  but 
his  feet  moved  lightly,  blithely.  Hy  could  dance 
on  his  own  tombstone — and  he  would  dance  well. 

At  one  of  the  two  front  windows  Henry  Bates,  of 
The  Courier,  otherwise  the  Worm,  in  striped,  but- 
tonless  pajamas  caught  across  the  chest  with  a 
safety-pin,  gazed  down  at  the  Square  while  feel- 
ing absently  along  the  sill  for  the  cream  bottle. 

The  third  member  of  our  little  group  of  bachelors, 
Peter  Ericson  Mann,  was  away;  down  at  Atlantic 
City,  working  or  something.  Also  nursing  a  broken 
heart.  For  everybody  knew  now  that  he  and  Sue 
Wilde  were  not  to  be  married. 

The  desk  served  as  breakfast  table;  an  old  news- 
paper as  cloth.  There  were  flaked  cereal  in  bowls, 
coffee  from  the  percolator  on  the  bookcase,  rolls 
from  a  paper  sack. 

The  Worm  lingered  over  his  coffee.  Hy  gulped 
his,  glancing  frequently  at  his  watch,  propped 
against  the  inkstand. 

"Oh,"  observed  the  Worm,  pausing  in  his  task  of 
cleaning  his  pipe  with  a  letter  opener,  "I  nearly 
forgot.  A  lady  called  up.  While  you  were  in  the 
bath  tub." 

"This  morning?"  Hy's  face  went  discreetly  blank. 


A    BACHELOR    AT   LARGE          237 

"Yes,  Miss — Miss — sounded  like  Banana." 

"Miss  Sorana."  Hy's  eyelids  fluttered  an  instant. 
Then  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  was  again  his  lightly  im- 
perturbable self.  "What  an  ungodly  hour !"  he  mur- 
mured, "for  Silvia,  of  all  girls.  But  she  knows  she 
mustn't  call  me  at  the  office." 

The  Worm  regarded  his  roommate  with  discern- 
ing, mildly  humorous  eyes.  "Who,  may  I  ask,  is 
Silvia?  And  what  is  she?" 

Hy  missed  the  allusion.  "If  The  Evening  Earth 
were  ever  to  come  into  possession  of  my  recent  let- 
ters which  I  devoutly  hope  and  trust  they  won't" — 
Hy  staged  a  shudder — "they  would  undoubtedly  re- 
fer to  her  as  'an  actress.'  Just  like  that.  An 
actress." 

"Hm!"  mused  the  Worm,  "it's  in  writing  al- 
ready, eh!" 

Hy  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  old  world  has 
to  go  round,"  said  he.  Then  his  eyes  grew  dreamy. 
"But,  my  boy,  my  boy!  You  should  see  her — the 
darling  of  the  gods !  Absolutely  the  darling  of  the 
gods!  Met  her  at  the  Grand  Roof.  Good  lord! 
figured  in  cold  calendar  arithmetic,  it  isn't  eight 
days.  But  then,  they  say  eternity  is  but  a  moment." 

"A  dancing  case?"  queried  the  Worm. 

Hy  nodded.    "After  ten  steps,  my  son,  we  knew ! 


238  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Absolute-ly  knew !  She  knew.  I  knew.  We  were 
helpless — it  had  to  be." 

At  this  point  Hy  pocketed  his  watch  and  settled 
back  to  smoke  comfortably.  He  always  bolted  his 
breakfast  by  the  watch;  he  always  chatted  or  read 
the  paper  afterward;  he  was  always  late  at  the 
office. 

The  Worm  was  studying  him  quizzically.  "Hy," 
he  said,  "how  do  you  do  it  ?" 

"Do  what?"  queried  Hy,  struggling  with  a  smile 
of  self-conscious  elation. 

"Oh,  come!  You  know.  This!"  The  Worm 
gestured  inclusively  with  his  pipe.  "Ten  days  ago 
it  was  that  Hilda  Hansen  person  from  Wisconsin. 
Two  weeks  before  that — " 

Hy  raised  his  hand.  "Go  easy  with  the  dead  past, 
my  son." 

The  Worm  pressed  on.  "Morally,  ethically,  you 
are  doubtless  open  to  criticism.  As  are  the  rest  of 
us.  That  is  neither  here  nor  there.  What  I  want 
to  know  is,  how  do  you  do  it?  You're  not  -beautiful. 
You're  not  witty — though  the  younger  among  'em 
might  think  you  were,  for  the  first  few  hours.  But 
the  ladies,  God  bless  'em! — overlooking  many  men 
of  character  and  charm,  overlooking  even  myself — 
come  after  you  by  platoons,  regiments,  brigades. 


A    BACHELOR    AT    LARGE          239 

They  fairly  break  in  your  door.  .What  is  it?  How 
do  you  do  it?" 

"It's  a  gift,"  said  Hy  cheerily,  "plus  experience." 

The  Worm  was  slowly  shaking  his  head.  "It's 
not  experience,"  he  said.  "That's  a  factor,  but  that's 
not  it.  You  hit  it  the  first  time.  It's  a  gift — per- 
haps plus  eyelashes." 

"But,  my  boy,  I  sometimes  fail.  Take  the  case 
you  were  about  to  mention — Betty  Deane.  I  regard 
Betty  as  my  most  notable  miscalculation — my  Dar- 
danelles." 

"Not  for  a  minute,  Hy.  As  I've  heard  the  story, 
Betty  was  afraid  of  you,  ran  away,  married  in  a 
panic.  She,  a  self-expresser  of  the  self-expressers, 
a  seeker  of  the  Newest  Freedom,  marries  a  small 
standpatter  who  makes  gas  engines.  To  escape 
your  hypnotic  influence.  No — I  can't  concede  it. 
That,  sir,  was  a  tribute  to  your  prowess,  no  less." 

Hy  assumed  an  expression  of  modesty.  "If  you 
know  all  about  it,  why  ask  me?  I  don't  know.  A 
man  like  me,  reasonably  young,  reasonably  hard- 
working, reasonably  susceptible — well,  good  lord! 
I  need  the  feminine — " 

"I'm  not  puzzled  about  the  demand,"  said  the 
Worm,  "but  the  supply." 

"Oh,  come!    There  aren't  so  many.     I  did  have 


240  THE   TRUFFLERS 

that  little  flare-up  with  Betty.  She  promised  to  go 
away  with  me  on  the  night  boat.  She  didn't  turn 
up;  I  took  that  trip  alone." 

"It  got  as  far  as  that,  eh?" 

"It  did.  Whatever  her  reasons  she  skipped  back 
to  her  home  town  and  married  the  maker  of  gas 
engines.  The  Hilda  Hansen  matter  caught  me  on 
the  rebound.  There  couldn't  ever  have  been  any- 
thing in  that,  anyway.  The  girl's  a  leaner.  Hasn't 
even  a  protective  crust.  Some  kind  uncle  ought  to 
take  her  and  her  little  wall-paper  designs  back  to 
Wisconsin.  But  this  is — different!"  He  fumbled 
rather  excitedly  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  let- 
ter— pages  and  pages  of  it,  closely  written  in  a  nerv- 
ous hand  that  was  distinguished  mainly  by  unusually 
heavy  down  strokes  of  a  stub  pen.  He  glanced 
eagerly  through  it,  coloring  as  his  eyes  fell  on  this 
phrase  and  that.  "You  know,  I'd  almost  like  to 
read  you  a  little  of  it.  Damn  it,  the  girl's  got  some- 
thing— courage,  fire,  personality!  She's  perfectly 
wild — a  pagan  woman!  She's — " 

The  Worm  raised  an  arresting  pipe.  "Don't," 
he  said  dryly.  "Never  do  that!  Besides,  your  de- 
fense, while  fairly  plausible,  accounts  for  only  about 
three  months  of  your  life." 

Slightly  crestfallen,  Hy  read  on  in  silence.   Then 


A    BACHELOR    AT   LARGE          241 

he  turned  back  and  started  at  the  beginning.  Finally, 
looking  up  and  catching  the  Worm's  interested,  crit- 
ical eyes  on  him,  he  stuffed  the  document  back  into 
his  pocket,  lit  a  new  cigarette,  got  up,  found  his  hat 
and  stick,  stood  a  moment  in  moody  silence,  sighed 
deeply  and  went  out. 

The  telephone  rang.  As  the  Worm  drew  the  in- 
strument toward  him  and  lifted  the  receiver  the  door 
opened  and  Hy  came  charging  back. 

The  voice  was  feminine.  "Is  Mr.  Lowe  there?" 
it  said. 

"Gimme  that  phone!"  breathed  Hy,  reaching 
for  it. 

The  Worm  swung  out  of  his  reach.  "No,"  he 
said  into  the  transmitter,  "he's  gone  out.  Just  a 
moment  ago.  Would  you  like  to  leave  any  mes- 
sage?" And  dodging  behind  the  desk,  he  grinned 
at  Hy. 

That  young  man  was  speechless. 

"Who  did  you  say?"  Thus  the  Worm  into  the 
telephone.  "Mrs.  Bixbee?"  He  spoke  swiftly  to 
Hy.  "It's  funny.  I've  heard  the  voice.  But  Mrs. 
Bixbee!"  Then  into  the  telephone.  "Yes,  this  is 
Mr.  Bates.  Oh,  you  were  Betty  Deane?  Yes,  in- 
deed! Wait  a  moment.  I  think  he  has  just  come 
in  again.  I'll  call  him." 


242  THE    TRUFFLERS 

But  at  that  name  Hy  bolted.  The  door  slammed 
after  him.  The  Worm  could  hear  him  running 
along  the  outer  corridor  and  down  the  stairs.  He 
had  not  stopped  to  ring  for  the  elevator. 

"No,"  said  the  Worm  now  unblushingly,  "I  was 
mistaken.  He  isn't  here.  That  was  the  floor  maid." 

As  he  pushed  the  instrument  back  on  the  desk,  he 
sighed  and  shook  his  head.  "That's  it,"  he  said 
aloud,  with  humility.  "It's  a  gift." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   BUZZER 

NEW  YORK,  as  much  as  Paris  or  Peking,  is 
the  city  of  bizarre  contrasts.     One  such  is 
modestly  illustrated  in  the  life  of  Hy  Lowe. 

Hy  hurried  on  this  as  on  every  working  morning 
eastward  across  Broadway  and  through  Astor  Place 
to  the  large  five-story  structure,  a  block  in  length, 
near  the  heart  of  the  Bowery,  that  had  been  known 
for  seventy  years  as  Scripture  House.  Tract  so- 
cieties clustered  within  the  brownstone  walls,  pub- 
lishers of  hymn  books  and  testaments,  lecture  bu- 
reaus, church  extension  groups,  temperance  and 
anti-cigarette  societies,  firms  of  lady  typists,  and 
with  these,  flocks  of  shorter-lived  concerns  whose  lit- 
erature was  pious  and  whose  aims  were  profoundly 
commercial.  Long  years  before,  when  men  wore 
beavers  and  stocks  and  women  wore  hoopskirts,  the 
building  had  symbolized  the  organized  evangelical 
forces  that  were  to  galvanize  and  remake  a  corrupt 
world. 

243 


244  THE    TRUFFLERS 

But  the  world  had  somehow  evaded  this  par- 
ticular galvanizing  process.  It  had  plunged  wildly 
on  the  little  heretical  matter  of  applied  science; 
which  in  its  turn  had  invaded  the  building  in  the 
form  of  electric  light  and  power  and  creakily  inse- 
cure elevators.  The  Trusts  had  come,  and  Labor 
Unions  and  Economic  Determinism — even  the  I. 
W.  W.  and  the  mad  Nietzschean  propaganda  of  the 
Greenwich  Village  New  Russianists.  Not  to  men- 
tion War.  Life  had  twisted  itself  into  puzzling 
shapes.  New  York  had  followed  farther  and  far- 
ther tip-town  its  elevated  roads,  subways,  steel-built 
sky-scrapers  and  amazing  palaces  of  liquors  and  lob- 
sters, leaving  the  old  building  not  even  the  scant 
privilege  of  dominating  the  slums  and  factories  that 
had  crept  gradually  to  and  around  it.  And  now 
as  a  last  negligent  insult,  a  very  new  generation — a 
confused  generation  of  Jews,  Italians,  Irish,  Poles, 
Slavs,  serving  as  bookkeepers,  stenographers,  mes- 
sengers, door  girls,  elevator  boys — idled  and  flirted 
and  enacted  their  little  worldly  comedies  and 
tragedies  within  the  very  walls  of  Scripture  House 
— practised  a  furtive  dance  step  or  two  in  the  dim 
stock  rooms,  dreamed  of  broiled  lobsters  (even  of 
liquors)  while  patient  men  with  white  string  neck- 
ties and  routine  minds  sat  in  inner  offices  and  con- 


THE    BUZZER  245 

tinued  the  traditional  effort  to  remake  that  forgot- 
ten old  world. 

But  if  the  vision  had  failed,  many  a  successful 
enterprise,  then  and  now,  thrived  under  the  cover  of 
Scripture  House.  One  had  thrived  there  for  thirty 
years — the  independent  missionary  weekly  known 
to  you  as  My  Brother's  Keeper.  This  publication 
was  the  "meal  ticket"  to  which  Hy,  at  rare  inter- 
vals, referred.  On  the  ground  glass  of  his  office 
door  were  the  words,  lettered  in  black,  "Assistant 
Editor."  To  this  altitude  had  eight  years  of  report- 
ing and  editing  elevated  Hy  Lowe.  The  compen- 
sating honorarium  was  forty-five  dollars  a  week. 
Not  a  great  amount  for  one  whose  nature  demanded 
correct  clothing,  Broadway  dinners,  pretty  girls  and 
an  occasional  taxicab ;  still  a  bachelor  who  lives  in- 
expensively as  to  rooms,  breakfasts  and  lunches  and 
is  not  too  hard  on  his  clothes  can  go  reasonably  far 
on  forty-five  dollars,  even  in  New  York. 

On  this  as  on  other  mornings  Hy,  after  a  smile 
and  a  wink  for  the  noticeably  pretty  little  telephone 
girl  in  the  outer  office,  slid  along  the  inner  corridor 
close  to  the  wood  and  glass  partition.  Though  the 
Walrus'  open  doorway  dominated  the  corridor, 
there  was  always  a  chance  of  slipping  in  unnoted. 

He  opened  and  closed  his  own  door  very  softly; 


246  THE   TRUFFLERS 

whipped  off  and  hung  up  his  street  coat ;  donned  th£ 
old  black  alpaca  that  was  curiously  bronzed  from 
the  pockets  down  by  thousands  of  wipings  of  purple 
ink;  and  within  twenty  seconds  was  seated  at  his 
desk  going  through  the  morning's  mail. 

A  buzzer  sounded — on  the  partition  just  above 
his  head.  Hy  started;  turned  and  stared  at  the  in- 
nocent little  electrical  machine.  His  color  mounted. 
He  compressed  his  lips.  He  picked  up  the  edi- 
torial shears  and  deliberately  slipped  one  blade  under 
the  insulated  wires  that  led  away  from  the  buzzer. 

Again  the  sound!  Hy's  fingers  relaxed.  He 
snorted,  tossed  the  shears  on  the  desk,  strode  to  the 
door,  paused  to  compose  his  features ;  then  wearing 
the  blankly  innocent  expression  that  meant  forty- 
five  dollars  a  week,  walked  quietly  into  the  big  room 
at  the  end  of  the  corridor  where,  behind  a  flat  ma- 
hogany desk  seven  feet  square,  sat  the  Reverend 
Hubbell  Harkness  Wilde,  D.  D. 

On  the  wall  behind  him  lettered  in  gold  leaf  on 
black  enamel,  hung  the  apothegm  (not  from  the  elo- 
quent pen  of  Doctor  Wilde) — "It  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive."  Beneath,  in  a  long  mahogany 
bookcase,  were  hundreds  of  volumes,  every  one  in- 
scribed in  gratitude  and  admiration  to  the  editor 
of  My  Brother's  Keeper.  The  great  desk  was 


THE    BUZZER  247 

heaped  with  books,  manuscripts,  folders  of  corre- 
spondence. Beside  it,  pencil  warily  poised,  sat  Miss 
Hardwick,  who  for  more  than  twenty  years  had  fol- 
lowed Doctor  Wilde  about  these  offices — during 
most  of  every  working  day  taking  down  his  most 
trivial  utterances,  every  word,  to  be  transcribed 
later  on  the  typewriter  by  her  three  six-dollar-a- 
week  girls.  It  was  from  the  resulting  mass  of  ver- 
biage that  Miss  Hardwick  and  the  doctor  dug  out 
and  arranged  the  weekly  sermon-editorials  that  you 
read  when  you  were  a  Sunday-school  pupil  and  that 
your  non-citified  aunts  and  uncles  are  reading  in 
book  form  to  this  day.  They  were  a  force,  these 
sermons.  Make  no  mistake  about  that!  They  had 
a  sensational  vigor  that  you  rarely  heard  from  the 
formal  pulpit.  The  back-cover  announcements  of 
feature-sermons  to  come  were  stirring  in  themselves. 
If  your  mind  be  "practical,"  scorning  all  mystical 
theorizings,  let  me  pass  on  to  you  the  inside  in- 
formation that  through  sermons  and  advertise- 
ments of  sermons  and  sensational  full-page  appeals 
in  display  type  this  man  whom  Hy  light-mindedly 
dismissed  with  the  title  of  "the  Walrus"  had  col- 
lected more  than  two  million  dollars  in  twenty  years 
for  those  mission  stations  of  his  in  Africa  or  Mad- 
agascar (or  wherever  they  were).  That  is  slightly 


248  THE    TRUFFLERS 

upward  of  a  hundred  thousand  a  year  in  actual 
money,  as  a  net  average ! 

We  have  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  Doctor 
Wilde.  That  was  at  the  Crossroads  Theater,  where 
his  runaway  daughter  was  playing  a  boy  in  Jacob 
Zanin's  playlet,  Any  Street.  But  the  Walrus  was 
then  out  of  his  proper  setting — was  merely  a  grim 
hint  of  a  forgotten  Puritanism  in  that  little  Bo- 
hemian world  of  experimental  compliance  with  the 
Freudian  Wish. 

We  see  him  in  his  proper  setting  here.  The  old- 
fashioned  woodcut  of  him  that  was  always  in  the 
upper  left  corner  of  sermon  or  announcement  was 
made  in  1886 — that  square,  young,  strong  face, 
prominent  nose,  penetrating  eyes.  Even  then  it  flat- 
tered him.  The  man  now  sitting  at  the  enormous  desk 
was  twenty-nine  years  older.  The  big  hooked  nose 
was  still  there.  The  pale-green  eyes  were  still  a  strik- 
ing feature ;  but  they  looked  tired  now.  There  was 
the  strip  of  whisker  on  each  cheek,  close-clipped, 
tinged  now  with  gray.  He  was  heavier  in  neck  and 
shoulders.  There  were  deep  lines  about  the  wide,  thin, 
orator's  mouth.  Despite  the  nose  and  eyes  there 
was  something  yielding  about  that  mouth ;  something 
of  the  old  politician  who  has  learned  to  temper 
strength  with  craft,  who  has  learned,  too,  that  hu- 


THE    BUZZER  249 

man  nature  moves  and  functions  within  rather  nar- 
row limits  and  is  assailed  by  subtle  weaknesses.  It 
was  an  enigmatic  face.  Beneath  it  were  low  turn- 
over collar,  the  usual  white  string  tie  and  a  well- 
worn  black  frock  coat. 

Doctor  Wilde  was  nervous  this  morning.  His 
eyes  found  it  difficult  to  meet  those  of  his  mild- faced 
assistant  in  the  old  alpaca  office  coat. 

"Miss  Hardwick — you  may  go,  please!"  Thus 
Doctor  Wilde;  and  he  threw  out  his  hands  in  a 
nervous  gesture. 

For  an  instant,  sensing  some  new  tension  in  the 
office  atmosphere,  Hy  caught  himself  thinking  of 
Sue  Wilde.  She  had  a  trick  of  throwing  out  her 
hands  like  that.  Only  she  did  it  with  extraordinary 
grace.  In  certain  ways  they  were  alike,  this  eccen- 
tric gifted  man  and  his  eccentric  equally  gifted 
daughter.  Not  in  all  particulars;  for  Sue  had 
charm.  "Must  get  it  from  her  mother's  side," 
mused  Hy.  He  knew  that  the  mother  was  dead,  that 
the  house  from  which  Sue  had  fled  to  Greenwich 
Village  and  Art  and  Freedom  was  now  presided  over 
by  a  second  wife  who  dressed  surprisingly  well,  and 
whose  two  children — little  girls — were  on  occasions 
brought  into  the  office. 

His  reverie  ended  abruptly.    Miss  Hardwick  had 


250  THE   TRUFFLERS 

gathered  up  her  note-books  and  pencils ;  was  rising 
now ;  and  as  she  passed  out,  released  in  Hy's  direc- 
tion one  look  that  almost  frightened  him.  It  was  a 
barbed  shaft  of  bitter  malevolence,  oddly  confused 
with  trembling,  incredible  triumph. 

"Sit  down,  please !"  It  was  Doctor  Wilde's  voice. 
Hy  sat  down  in  the  chair  that  was  always  kept  for 
him  across  the  huge  desk  from  the  doctor.  That 
gentleman  had  himself  risen,  creaked  over  to  the 
door,  was  closing  it  securely. 

What  had  that  queer  look  meant?  From  Miss 
Hardwick  of  all  people!  To  Hy  she  had  been 
hardly  more  than  an  office  fixture.  But  in  that  brief 
instant  she  had  revealed  depths  of  hatred,  malignant 
jealousy — something ! 

.The  doctor  sank  heavily  into  his  own  chair.  Hy, 
mystified,  watched  him  and  waited.  The  man 
reached  for  a  paper-weight — a  brass  model  of  his 
first  mission  house  from  Africa  or  Madagascar  or 
somewhere — and  placed  it  before  him  on  top  of  the 
unopened  morning's  mail,  moved  it  this  way,  then  a 
little  that  way  and  looked  at  it  critically.  Hy,  more 
and  more  startled,  a  thought  hypnotized,  leaned  for- 
ward on  the  desk  and  gazed  at  that  little  brass  house. 
Finally  the  doctor  spoke : 


THE    BUZZER  251 

"I  have  an  unpleasant  duty — but  it  is  not  a  mat- 
ter that  I  can  lightly  pass  over — " 

Hy  paled  a  little,  knit  his  brows,  stared  with  in- 
creasing intensity  at  that  mission  house  of  .brass. 

"For  a  long  time,  Mr.  Lowe,  I  have  felt  that  your 
conduct  was  not — " 

"Oh,"  thought  Hy,  in  a  daze,  "my  conduct  was 
not—" 

" — was  not — well,  in  keeping  with  your  posi- 
tion." 

"With  my  position."    Hy's  numb  mind  repeated. 

"This  is  not  a  matter  of  a  particular  act  or  a  par- 
ticular occasion,  Mr.  Lowe.  For  a  long  time  it  has 
been  known  to  me  that  you  sought  undesirable  com- 
panions, that  you  have  been  repeatedly  seen  in — 
in  Broadway  resorts." 

Hy's  mind  was  stirring  awake  now,  darting  this 
way  and  that  like  a  frightened  mouse.  Some  one 
had  been  talking  to  the  doctor — and  very  recently. 
The  man  was  a  coward  in  office  matters;  he  had 
been  goaded  to  this.  The  "for  a  long  time,"  so 
heavily  repeated,  was  of  course  a  verbal  blind.  Could 
it  have  been — not  Miss  Hardwick.  Then  Hy  was 
surprised  to  hear  his  own  voice : 

"But  this  is  a  charge,  Doctor  Wilde!    A  charge 


252  THE   TRUFFLERS 

should  be  definite."  The  words  came  mechanically. 
Hy  must  have  read  them  somewhere.  "I  surely  have 
a  right  to  know  what  has  been  said  about  me." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  is  necessary  to  be  specific," 
said  the  doctor,  apparently  now  that  the  issue  was 
joined,  finding  his  task  easier. 

"I  must  insist!"  cried  Hy,  on  his  feet  now.  He 
was  thinking — "What  has  she  told  him?  What 
does  she  know?  What  does  she  know!" 

"Sit  down!"  said  Doctor  Wilde. 

Hy  sat  down.  His  chief  moved  the  mission  house 
a  trifle  to  square  it  with  the  edge  of  the  desk. 

"To  mention  only  one  occasion,"  went  on  the 
doctor's  voice — "though  many  are  known  to  me,  I 
am  well  informed  regarding  the  sort  of  life  you  are 
known  to  be  leading.  You  see,  Mr.  Lowe,  you  must 
understand  that  the  office  atmosphere  of  My  Broth- 
er's Keeper  is  above  reproach.  Ability  alone  will 
not  carry  a  man  here.  There  are  standards  finer  and 
truer  than — " 

A  rhetorical  note  was  creeping  into  the  man's 
Voice.  He  turned  instinctively  to  see  if  Miss  Hard- 
wick  was  catching  the  precious  words  as  they  fell 
from  his  lips ;  then  with  his  eyes  on  her  empty  chair 
he  floundered. 

The  telephone  rang.    Hy,  with  alacrity  grown  out 


THE    BUZZER  253 

of  long  practise  in  fending  for  his  chief,  reached 
for  it. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lowe — "  It  was  the  voice  of  the  pretty 
little  telephone  girl :  "It's  a  lady !  She  simply  won't 
be  put  off!  Could  you — " 

"Tell  him/'  said  Hy  with  cold  solemnity,  "that 
I  am  in  an  important  conference." 

"I  did  tell  her  that,  Mr.  Lowe." 

"Very  well — ask  him  to  leave  his  number.  I  can 
not  be  disturbed  now." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver.  "Doctor  Wilde,"  he 
said  in  the  same  solemn  tone.  "I  realize  of  course 
that  you  are  asking  for  my  resignation.  But  first  I 
must  know  the  charge  against  me.  There  has  been 
an  attack  on  my  character.  I  have  the  right  to  de- 
mand full  knowledge  of  it." 

"To  mention  only  one  occasion,"  said  the  doctor, 
as  if  unaware  of  the  interruption,  still  fussing  with 
the  mission  house,  "you  were  seen,  as  recently  as 
last  evening,  leaving  a  questionable  restaurant  in 
company  with  a  still  more  questionable  young 
woman." 

So  that  was  all  he  knew!  Hy  breathed  a  very 
little  more  easily.  Then  the  telephone  rang  again, 
and  Hy's  overstrained  nerves  jumped  like  mad. 

"Very  well,"  said  he  to  the  pretty  telephone  girl, 


254  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"put  him  on  my  wire."  And  to  his  chief :  "You  will 
have  to  excuse  me,  Doctor.  This  appears  to  be  im- 
portant." He  rose  with  extreme  dignity  and  left 
the  room. 

Once  within  his  own  office  he  stood  clinging  to 
the  door-knob,  breathing  hard.  It  was  all  over !  He 
was  fired.  He  must  begin  life  again — like  General 
Grant.  His  own  telephone  bell  was  ringing  fran- 
tically. At  first  he  hardly  heard  it.  Finally  he 
pulled  himself  together  and  moved  toward  the  desk. 
It  would  be  Betty,  of  course.  She  ought  to  have 
more  sense!  Why  hadn't  she  stayed  up-state  with 
that  new  husband  of  hers,  anyway!  Wasn't  life 
disastrous  enough  without  a  very  much  entangled, 
contrite  Betty  on  his  own  still  more  entangled 
hands. 

But  the  voice  was  not  that  of  Betty.  Nor  was  it 
the  voice  of  Silvia.  It  was  a  soft  little  voice,  me- 
lodious, hesitating.  It  was  familiar,  yet  unfamiliar. 

"Oh,"  it  said,  "is  that  you?  I've  had  such  a  hard 
time  getting  you." 

"I'm  sorry !"  breathed  Hy.   Who  was  she  ? 

"Are  you  awfully  busy?" 

Hy  hesitated.  Deep  amid  the  heaped  and  smoking 
ruins  of  his  life  a  little  warm  thing  was  stirring.  It 
was  the  very  instinct  for  adventure.  He  looked 


THE   BUZZER  255 

grimly  about  the  room,  to  be  his  office  no  longer.  He 
didn't  care  particularly  what  happened  now.  His 
own  voice  even  took  on  something  of  the  strange 
girl's  softness. 

"Not  so  awfully,"  said  he.  Then  groping  for 
words  added :  "Where  are  you  now  ?" 

"Up  at  the  Grand  Central." 

"Goodness!     You're  not  going  away — now?" 

"Yes — going  home.    I  feel  awfully  bad  about  it." 

A  silence  intervened.    Then  this  from  Hy : 

"You — you're  not  alone  up  there?" 

"All  alone."  .What  a  charmingly  plaintive  little 
voice  it  was,  anyway!  The  healthy  color  was  re- 
turning to  Hy's  cheeks. 

"Well,"  said  he— "well,  say—" 

"Yes?"  she  murmured. 

"How  long — when  does  your  train  go?" 

"Oh,  could  you?  I  didn't  dare  ask — you  seemed 
so  busy!" 

"I  could  be  there  in — well,  under  fifteen  minutes." 

"Oh,  good.  I've  got — let  me  see — nearly  half  an 
hour." 

"Be  by  the  clock  in  the  main  waiting-room. 
Good-by!" 

Hy  slammed  down  the  receiver;  tore  off  the  al- 
paca coat  and  stuffed  it  into  the  waste  basket;  got 


256  THE   TRUFFLERS 

into  his  street  coat;  observed  the  editorial  shears  on 
the  desk;  seized  them,  cut  the  buzzer  wires,  noted 
with  satisfaction  the  nick  he  made  in  one  blade; 
threw  the  shears  to  the  floor  and  rushed  from  the 
office. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   WILD   PAGAN    PERSON 

A'  the  flower  store  in  the  station  he  bought  a 
red  carnation  for  his  lapel  and  walked  briskly 
toward  the  big  clock. 

A  slim  girl  was  there  at  the  inquiry  desk,  very 
attractively  dressed.  His  pulse  bounded.  She  turned 
a  forlornly  pretty  face  and  he  saw  that  it  was  Hilda 
Hansen  of  Wisconsin. 

Their  hands  met.  They  wandered  off  toward  the 
dim  corridor  where  the  telephones  are. 

"It  was  dear  of  you  to  come,"  said  she  rather 
shyly.  "I  shall  feel  better  now.  I  was  beginning 
to  think — well,  that  you  didn't  like  me  very  well." 

"Hilda — that's  not  fair!"  he  murmured.  Mur- 
mured, if  the  whole  truth  were  told,  rather  blithely. 
For  Hilda  was  pretty.  Her  soft  dependence  was  the 
sweetest  flattery.  Her  simple,  easily  satisfied  mind 
was  a  relief  after  certain  slightly  more  desperate  ad- 
ventures. And  so,  when  he  said,  "I'm  sorry  you're 
going,  Hilda.  Is  it  for  long?"  he  spoke  as  sincerely 
as  is  commonly  done. 

257 


258  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"For  good !"  she  blurted  out  in  reply  to  this ;  and 
the  tears  came.  He  took  her  arm  and  walked  her 
farther  down  the  corridor.  The  little  story  was 
tumbling  out  now,  helter  skelter.  Her  father  had 
stopped  her  allowance,  ordered  her  home.  She  was 
leaving  forever  the  freedom  of  dear  old  Greenwich 
Village.  Naturally  Hy  kissed  her. 

He  kissed  her  again,  right  out  on  the  train  plat- 
form, with  belated  passengers  elbowing  by  and 
porters  looking  on.  It  was  Hy's  little  sacrament  of 
freedom.  He  could  kiss  them  now — in  public — as 
he  chose !  For  he  was  fired.  No  more  gloomy  old 
office!  No  more  of  the  gliding  Miss  Hard  wick! 
No  more  of  the  doctor's  oratory  1  No  more  of  that 
damn  buzzer! 

The  thing  to  do,  of  course,  was  to  go  back  and 
pack  up  his  belongings ;  but  he  couldn't  bring  himself 
to  it.  So  he  stayed  out  until  lunch  time,  filling  in 
the  odd  hour  with  an  eleven  o'clock  movie  show.  He 
lunched  expensively  and  alone  at  the  club,  off  a 
porterhouse  steak  with  mushrooms,  potatoes  "au 
gratin,"  creamed  spinach,  musty  ale  in  pewter,  ro- 
maine  salad,  Camembert  cheese  with  toasted  bis- 
cuit and  black  coffee. 

When  he  reentered  his  office,  who  should  be  sit- 
ting there  but  the  Worm.  Before  he  could  overcome 


THE    WILD    PAGAN    PERSON       259 

a  slight  embarrassment  and  begin  the  necessary 
process  of  telling  his  story,  a  heavy  crushing  step 
sounded  in  the  corridor,  passed  the  door,  went  on 
into  the  big  room  in  the  corner. 

The  Worm  rose  abruptly. 

"Isn't  that  the  Walrus?"  he  asked. 

'The  same,"  said  Hy. 

"I've  got  to  see  him.    Will  you  take  me  in  ?" 

"Oh,  sit  down!    I  can  tell  you  more  than  he  can." 

"Perhaps,  but  at  another  time." 

Hy  emerged  from  his  self -absorption  at  this  point 
sufficiently  to  observe  that  the  Worm,  usually  smil- 
ing and  calm,  was  laboring  under  some  excitement. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  "come  along!"  And  quite 
light  of  heart,  afraid  of  nothing  now,  he  led  the 
Worm  in  and  introduced  him  as,  "My  friend,  Mr, 
Bates  of  The  Courier.  Then,  hearing  his  telephone 
ringing  again,  he  hurried  back  to  his  own  office. 

It  would  be  Betty,  of  course.  Well,  as  far  as  the 
office  was  concerned,  it  didn't  matter  now.  She 
could  call!  Anybody  could  call.  .  .  .  He  picked 
up  the  receiver. 

"Oh,"  he  murmured— "hello,  Silvia!  Wait  a 
moment."  He  got  up  and  closed  the  door.  "All 
right,"  he  said  then.  "What  is  it,  little  girl?" 

"Oh!"  said  she,  "thank  God,  I've  found  you! 


260  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Hy,  something  dreadful  has  almost  happened.  It 
has  done  such  things  to  my  pride !  But  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  want  me  to  turn  to  any  one  else  for  help, 
would  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  with  sudden  queer  misgivings, 
"of  course  not!  Not  for  a  minute!" 

"I  knew  you'd  feel  that  way,  dear.  Are  you 
dreadfully  busy?  Could  you — I  know  it's  a  lot  to 
ask — but  could  you,  for  me,  dear,  run  out  for  five 
minutes?" 

"I  will !"  said  he,  with  an  emphasis  aimed  as  much 
at  himself  as  at  her.  "Where  are  you  ?" 

"I'm  talking  from  the  drug  store  across  the  street, 
right  near  you.  I'll  wait  outside." 

The  misgivings  deepened  as  Hy  walked  slowly  out 
to  the  elevator  and  then  out  to  the  street.  Hy  would 
have  to  be  classified,  in  the  last  analysis,  as  a  city 
bachelor,  a  seasoned,  hardened  city  bachelor.  The 
one  prospect  that  instantly  and  utterly  terrifies  a 
hardened  city  bachelor  is  that  of  admitting  that  an- 
other has  a  moral  claim  upon  him.  The  essence  of 
bachelordom  is  the  avoidance  of  personal  responsi- 
bility. Therefore  it  was  a  reserved,  rather  dignified 
Hy  who  crossed  the  street  and  joined  the  supple, 
big-eyed,  conspicuous  young  woman  in  the  perfect- 
fitting  tailor  suit.  Another  factor  in  Hy's  mood, 
perhaps,  was  that  the  memory  of  Hilda  Hansen's 


THE   WILD    PAGAN    PERSON       261 

soft  young  lips  against  his  own  had  not  yet  wholly 
died. 

He  and  Silvia  walked  slowly  around  the  corner. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,"  she  said  in  an 
unsteady  voice.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  too. 
"Hy,  it's  awful  1  It's  my — my  furniture!"  The 
tears  fell  now.  She  wiped  them  away.  "They  say 
positively  they'll  take  it  away  to-night.  Every  stick. 
I've  cried  so!  I  tried  to  explain  that  I'm  actually 
rehearsing  with  Cunningham.  Before  the  end  of 
the  month  I  can  take  care  of  it  easily.  But — " 

Hy  stopped  short,  stood  on  the  curb,  looked  at 
her.  His  head  was  clear  and  cold  as  an  adding  ma- 
chine. "How  much  would  it  take?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  Hy."  She  was  crying  again.  "Don't  talk 
in  that  way — so  cold — " 

"I  know,"  he  broke  in,  "but—" 

"It's  fifty  dollars.    You  see—" 

"I  haven't  got  it,"  said  he. 

There  was  a  perceptible  ring  in  his  voice.  She 
looked  at  him,  puzzled. 

"Silvia,  dear— I'm  fired." 

"Fired?    Hy— when?" 

"To-day.  Chucked  out.  I  haven't  got  half  of 
that — to  live  on,  even." 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,  you  oughtn't  to  live  in  this 
careless  way,  not  saving  a  cent — " 


262  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Of  course  I  oughtn't.    But  I  do.    That's  me." 
"But  what  on  earth — what  reason — " 
"Conduct.    I'm  a  bad  one."    He  was  almost  tri- 
umphant.    "Only  last  night  I  was  seen  leaving  a 
questionable  restaurant — where  they  dance  and  drink 
— with  a  young  lady — " 

The  tears  were  not  falling  now.  Miss  Silvia  So- 
rana  was  looking  straight  at  him,  thoughtful,  even 
cool. 

"Are  you  telling  me  the  truth,  Hy  Lowe  ?" 
"The  gospel.    I'm  not  even  the  proletariat.    I'm 
the  unemployed." 

"Well,"  said  she— "well!"  And  she  thought  it 
deliberately  out.  "Well — I  guess  you  can't  be 
blamed  for  that !" 

Which  impressed  Hy  later  when  he  thought  it 
over,  as  a  curious  remark.  They  parted  shortly 
after  this. 

But  first  she  said,  "Hy,  dear,  I  don't  like  to  seem 
to  be  leaving  you  on  account  of  this.  It  must  be 
dreadfully  hard  for  you."  So  they  had  a  soda,  sit- 
ting in  the  drug  store  window.  Hy  almost  smiled, 
thinking  of  the  madness  of  it — he  and  an  unmistak- 
able actress,  in  working  hours,  here  actually  in  the 
shadow  of  grim  old  Scripture  House!  And  it  was 
nobody's  business !  It  could  hurt  nobody !  He  had 


THE   WILD    PAGAN    PERSON       263 

not  known  that  freedom  would  be  like  this.  There 
was  a  thrill  about  it;  so  deep  a  thrill  that  after  he 
had  put  the  sympathetic  but  plainly  hurrying  Silvia 
on  an  tip-town  car  and  had  paid  for  her  as  she  en- 
tered, he  could  not  bring  himself  to  return  to  the 
office.  Even  with  the  Worm  up  there,  wondering 
what  had  become  of  him.  Even  with  all  his  personal 
belongings  waiting  to  be  cleared  from  the  desk  and 
packed. 

He  wandered  over  to  Washington  Square,  his 
spirit  reveling  in  the  lazy  June  sunshine.  He 
stopped  and  listened  to  the  untiring  hurdy  gurdy; 
threw  coins  to  the  little  Italian  girls  dancing  on  the 
pavement.  He  thought  of  stopping  in  at  the  Pari- 
sian, ordering  a  "sirop"  and  reading  or  trying  to 
read,  those  delightfully  naughty  French  weeklies. 
He  knew  definitely  now  that  he  was  out  for  a  good 
time. 

There  was  a  difficulty.  It  is  easier  to  have  a  good 
time  when  there  is  a  girl  about.  Really  it  was  rather 
inopportune  that  Hilda  Hansen  had  flitted  back  to 
Wisconsin.  She  needed  a  guardian;  still  she  had 
been  an  appealing  young  thing  up  there  at  the  Grand 
Central.  But  she  had  gone !  And  Silvia — well,  that 
little  affair  had  taken  an  odd  and  not  overpleasant 
turn.  The  pagan  person  had,  plainly,  her  sophisti- 


264  THE   TRUFFLERS 

cated  moments.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  seen 
through  her.  For  that  matter,  you  couldn't  ever 
trust  her  sort. 

Then  creeping  back  into  his  mind  like  a  pet  dog 
after  a  beating,  hesitant,  all  fears  and  doubts  of  a 
welcome,  came  the  thought  of  Betty  Deane. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HE   WHO    HESITATED 

WHERE  was  Betty,  anyway!  And  why 
hadn't  she  called  up  the  office.  It  began  to 
seem  to  him  that  she  might  have  done  that  after 
her  little  effort  of  the  morning.  Hitherto,  before 
that  ridiculous  marriage  of  hers,  she  had  always 
put  up  with  Sue  Wilde,  over  in  Tenth  Street.  Per- 
haps she  was  there  now.  Mental  pictures  began  to 
form  of  Betty's  luxuriant  blonde  beauty.  And  it 
was  something  for  a  peach  like  that  to  leave  home 
and  rich  husband,  come  hurrying  down  to  New 
York  and  call  you  up  at  an  ungodly  hour  in  the 
morning.  He  remembered  suddenly,  warmly,  the 
time  he  had  first  kissed  Betty — over  in  New  Jersey, 
on  a  green  hillside,  of  a  glowing  afternoon.  His 
laziness  fell  away.  Briskly  he  walked  around  into 
Tenth  Street  and  rang  Sue's  bell. 

Betty  answered — prettier  than  ever,  a  rounded 
but  swaying  young  creature  who  said  little  and  that 
slowly. 

"Hello!"  she  said,  "Sue's  out." 
265 


266  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"I  don't  want  Sue.  Came  to  see  you,  Betty.  I'm 
fired — out  of  a  job — and  while  it  lasts,  hilariously 
happy.  How  about  a  bite  at  the  Parisian  ?" 

So  they  had  humorously  early  tea  at  the  old 
French  restaurant  near  the  Square.  Then  Betty 
went  up-town  on  the  bus  for  a  little  shopping,  and 
Hy  walked,  at  last,  back  to  the  office.  They  had 
decided  to  meet  again  for  dinner. 

Scripture  House  loomed  before  him — long,  dingy, 
grim  in  the  gay  sunshine.  He  stood  motionless  on 
the  farther  curb,  staring  at  it.  Had  three  years  of 
his  life  been  spent,  miserably  spent,  on  a  treadmill, 
in  that  haunt  of  hypocrisy?  Had  he  been  selling 
his  presumably  immortal  soul  on  the  instalment 
plan,  at  forty-five  a  week?  Or  was  it  a  hideous 
dream  ?  Was  he  dreaming  now  ? 

He  shuddered.  Then,  slowly,  he  walked  across 
the  street,  deciding  to  pack  up  and  get  out  for  good 
just  as  swiftly  as  the  thing  could  be  done.  He  was 
glad,  downright  glad,  that  it  was  his  character  that 
had  been  so  crudely  assailed.  That  let  him  out.  He 
needn't  be  decent — needn't  wait  a  month  to  break 
in  a  new  man — nothing  like  that!  He  wondered 
mildly  what  the  Worm  would  say,  and  Peter?  It 
might  be  necessary  to  borrow  a  bit  until  he  could 
get  going  again.  Though  perhaps  they  would  take 


HE   WHO    HESITATED  267 

him  back  on  the  old  paper  until  he  could  find  some- 
thing regular. 

The  sense  of  being  haunted  by  a  dream  grew  as 
he  went  up  in  the  elevator  and  walked  along  the 
hall.  He  saw  with  new  eyes  the  old  building  he 
had  so  long  taken  for  granted — saw  the  worn  hol- 
lows in  the  oak  floors,  the  patched  cracks  in  the 
plaster;  he  smelt  the  old  musty  odor  with  new  re- 
pugnance; noted  the  legends  on  office  doors  he 
passed  with  a  wry  smile,  the  Reverend  This  and  the 
Reverend  That,  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of 
Such  and  Such,  the  commercially  religious  Some- 
body &  Company. 

He  had  to  will  his  hand  to  open  the  door  lettered, 
"My  Brother's  Keeper;  Hubbell  Harkness  Wilde, 
D.  D."  He  had  to  will  his  feet  to  carry  him  within. 
But  once  within,  he  stood  motionless  and  the  queer- 
ness  seized  on  him,  widened  his  eyes,  caught  at  his 
breath.  For  the  place  was  absolutely  still.  Not  a 
typewriter  sounded.  Not  an  argumentative  voice 
floated  out  over  the  seven-foot  partitions.  It  was 
like  a  dead  place — uncanny,  awful.  For  an  instant 
he  considered  running;  wondered  fantastically 
whether  his  feet  would  turn  to  lead  and  hold  him 
back  as  feet  do  in  dreams. 

But  he  stood  his  ground  and  looked  cautiously 


268  THE   TRUFFLERS 

about.  There  within  the  rail,  in  the  corner,  the 
pretty  little  telephone  girl  sat  motionless  at  her 
switchboard,  watching  him  with  eyes  that  stared 
stupidly  out  of  a  white  face. 

He  stepped  to  her  side — tiptoeing  in  spite  of  him- 
self— tried  to  smile,  cleared  his  throat,  started  at 
the  sound;  then  whispered,  "For  Heaven's  sake, 
what's  the  matter?"  and  patted  the  girl's  cheek. 

Ordinarily  she  would  have  dodged  away  and 
looked  anxiously  about  in  fear  of  being  seen.  Now 
she  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  After  a  moment  she 
said,  also  whispering  and  quite  incoherently — "Is 
Miss  Hardwick  going  to  have  your  room  ?" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  out  of  sheer  nerv- 
ousness, he  gulped.  She  was  alive,  at  least.  He 
pinched  her  cheek ;  and  shook  his  head,  rather  mean- 
inglessly.  Then  he  braced  himself  and  went  on  in, 
wholly  unaware  that  he  was  still  tiptoeing. 

Two  girl  stenographers  sat  in  a  corner,  whisper- 
ing. At  sight  of  him  they  hushed.  He  passed  on. 
The  other  girls  were  not  at  their  desks,  though  he 
thought  that  most  of  their  hats  and  coats  hung  in 
the  farther  corner  as  usual.  The  office  boy  was  not 
to  be  seen.  The  copy  editor  and  proof-reader  was 
not  in  her  cubby-hole  at  the  end  of  the  corridor. 
Miss  Hardwick's  door  was  shut ;  but  as  he  passed  he 


HE   WHO    HESITATED  269 

thought  he  heard  a  rustle  within,  and  he  was  cer- 
tain that  he  saw  the  tip  of  a  hat  feather  over  the 
partition. 

He  came  to  his  own  door.  It  was  ajar.  He  felt 
sure  he  had  closed  it  when  he  left.  It  was  his  regu- 
lar practise  to  close  it.  He  stopped  short,  consider- 
ing this  as  if  it  was  a  matter  of  genuine  importance. 
Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  boy  might  have 
been  in  there  with  proofs. 

Doctor  Wilde's  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor 
stood  open.  The  seven- foot  square  mahogany  desk, 
heaped  with  papers  and  books,  looked  natural 
enough,  -but  the  chair  behind  it  was  empty. 

He  tiptoed  forward,  threw  his  door  open.  Then 
he  literally  gasped.  For  there,  between  the  desk  and 
the  window,  stood  the  Walrus.  He  held  the  nicked 
editorial  shears  in  his  hand — he  must  have  picked 
them  up  from  the  floor — and  was  in  the  act  of  look- 
ing from  them  to  the  cut  ends  of  the  wires  by  the 
buzzer. 

Hy's  overcharged  nervous  system  leaped  for  the 
nearest  outlet.  "I  cut  the  damn  things  myself,"  he 
said,  "this  morning." 

The  Walrus  turned  toward  him  an  ashen  face. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  they  were  ob- 
jectionable to  you." 


270  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"I've  hated  them  for  three  years,"  said  Hy. 

"You  should  have  spoken.  It  is  better  to  speak 
of  things." 

"Speak  nothing!"  Hy  sputtered.  "I  stood  a  fine 
chance." 

"You  know,"  observed  Doctor  Wilde,  as  if  he 
had  not  heard — his  voice  was  husky  and  curiously 
weak — "we  were  interrupted  this  morning.  You 
were  wrong  in  imagining  that  a  resignation  was  nec- 
essary. You  jumped  at  that  conclusion.  I  should 
say  that  you  were  unnecessarily  touchy." 

"But  my  character — " 

"I  repeat,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  were  unneces- 
sarily touchy.  A  man  must  not  be  too  sensitive. 
He  should  be  strong  to  take  as  well  as  give  blows. 
Your  actions,  it  seemed  to  me,  perhaps  wrongly, 
were  a  blow  to  me,  to  the  prestige  of  this  establish- 
ment. You  must  understand,  Mr.  Lowe,  that  in  this 
life  that  we  all  must  live" — absently  he  looked  about 
to  see  if  Miss  Hardwick's  pencil  was  poised  to  ren- 
der imperishable  the  thought  that  he  was  about  to 
put  into  words,  caught  himself,  brushed  a  limp  hand 
(with  the  shears  in  them)  across  his  eyes,  then  went 
on  with  an  effort — "I  will  say  further  that  when  we 
spoke  this  morning  I  had  not  seen  the  dummy  for 


HE   WHO   HESITATED  271 

the  issue  of  July  tenth.  Now  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  that  I  regard  that  as  a  good  dummy.  You  have 
there  caught  my  ideas  of  sound  make-up  better  than 
ever  before.  And  I  have — " 

"But  my  character — " 

" — and  I  have  just  written  instructions  to  Mr. 
Hennessy  to  make  a  change  in  your  salary  begin- 
ning with  next  Saturday's  envelope.  You  are  now 
doing  the  work  of  a  full  managing  editor.  Your  in- 
come should  be  sufficient  to  enable  you  to  support 
the  position  with  reasonable  dignity.  Hereafter 
you  will  draw  sixty  dollars  a  week." 

He  moved  toward  the  door.  He  seemed  sud- 
denly a  really  old  man,  grayer  of  hair  and  skin, 
more  bent,  less  certain  of  his  footing. 

"Here!"  cried  Hy,  sputtering  in  uncontrollable 
excitement,  "those  are  my  shears." 

"Ah,  so  they  are.  I  did  not  notice."  And  the 
Walrus  came  back,  laid  them  carefully  on  the  desk ; 
then  walked  out,  entered  his  own  room,  closed  the 
door. 

Hy  shut  his  door,  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  desk, 
sank,  an  inert  figure,  into  his  chair.  His  eyes  fo- 
cused on  the  old  alpaca  coat,  stuffed  into  the  waste 
basket.  He  took  it  out;  spread  it  on  the  desk  and 


272  THE   TRUFFLERS 

stared  at  the  ink  stains.  "I  can  have  it  cleaned,"  he 
thought.  Suddenly  he  pressed  two  shaking  hands 
to  his  throbbing  head. 

"My  God !"  he  muttered,  aloud.  "What  did  I  say 
to  him.  What  didn't  I  say  to  him?  I'm  a  loon! 
I'm  a  nut !  This  is  the  asylum !" 

He  stiffened  up;  sat  there  for  a  moment,  wild- 
eyed.  He  reached  down  and  pinched  his  thigh, 
hard.  He  sprang  up  and  paced  the  room.  He 
wheeled  suddenly,  craftily,"  on  the  silent  buzzer, 
there  on  the  partition.  So  far  all  right — the  wires 
were  cut  I 

He  saw  the  shears  lying  on  the  desk ;  pounced  on 
them  and  feverishly  examined  the  blades.  One  was 
nicked. 

So  far,  so  good.  But  the  supreme  test  remained. 
He  plunged  out  into  the  silent  corridor,  hesitated, 
stood  wrestling  with  the  devils  within  him,  con- 
quered them  and  white  as  all  the  ghosts  tapped  at 
Doctor  Wilde's  door,  opened  it  a  crack,  stuck  in  his 
head,  and  said : 

"How  much  did  you  say  it  was  to  be,  Doctor  ?" 

7he  Walrus  compressed  his  lips,  and  then  drew 
a  deep  breath  that  was  not  unlike  a  sigh.  "The  fig- 
tire  I  mentioned,"  he  replied,  "was  sixty  dollars  a 
week.  If  that  is  satisfactory  to  you." 


HE   WHO   HESITATED  273 

Hy  considered  this.  "On  the  whole,"  he  said 
finally,  "considering  every  thing,  I  will  agree  to  that." 

At  ten  minutes  past  midnight  Hy  let  himself  into 
the  rooms.  One  gas  jet  was  burning  dimly  in  the 
studio.  As  he  stood  on  the  threshold  he  could  just 
make  out  the  long  figure  of  the  Worm  half  reclining 
in  the  Morris  chair  -by  a  wide-open  window,  attired 
in  the  striped  pajamas  of  the  morning.  From  one 
elevated  foot  dangled  a  slipper  of  Chinese  straw. 
He  was  smoking  his  old  brier. 

"Hello!"  said  Hy  cheerfully. 

Silence.    Then,  "Hello !"  replied  the  Worm. 

Hy  tossed  his  hat  on  the  couch-bed  of  the  absent 
Peter,  then  came  and  stood  by  the  open  window, 
thrust  hands  deep  into  trousers  pockets,  sniffed  the 
mild  evening  air,  gazed  benevolently  on  the  trees, 
lights  and  little  moving  figures  of  the  Square.  Then 
he  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Great  night,  my  son !"  said  he. 

The  Worm  lowered  his  pipe,  looked  up  with  sud- 
den sharp  interest,  studied  the  gay  young  person 
standing  so  buoyantly  there  before  him;  then  re- 
placed the  pipe  and  smoked  on  in  silence. 

"Oh,  come !"  cried  Hy,  after  a  bit.  "Buclcup!  Be 
a  live  young  newspaper  man  I" 


274  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"I'm  not  a  newspaper  man,'"  replied  the  Worm. 

"You're  not  a — you  were  this  afternoon." 

"True." 

"Say,  my  son,  what  were  you  around  for  to- 
day?" 

The  pipe  came  down  again.  "You  mean  to  say 
you  don't  know?" 

"Not  a  thing.  Except  that  the  place  went  abso- 
lutely on  the  fritz.  I  thought  I  had  'em." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  muttered  Henry  Bates. 

"And  the  .Walrus  raised  me  fifteen  bucks  per. 
Just  like  that!" 

"He  raised  you?" 

"Yes,  my  child."  Hy  came  around,  sat  on  the 
desk,  dangled  his  legs. 

"Then,"  observed  the  Worm,  "he  certainly  thinks 
you  know." 

"Elucidate!    Elucidate!" 

The  Worm  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe; 
turned  the  warm  bowl  around  and  around  in  his 
hand.  "Our  paper — I  should  say  The  Courier — 
has  a  story  on  Doctor  Wilde — a  charge  that  he  has 
misappropriated  missionary  funds.  They  sent  me 
up  to-day  to  ask  if  he  would  consent  to  an  account- 
ing." 

Hy  whistled. 


HE   WHO    HESITATED  275 

"The  amount  is  put  roughly  at  a  million  dollars. 
I  didn't  care  much  about  the  assignment." 

"I  should  think  not." 

"I'm  fond  of  Sue.  But  it  was  my  job.  When  I 
told  him  what  I  was  there  for,  he  ran  me  out  of  his 
office,  locked  the  door  and  shouted  through  the  tran- 
som that  he  had  a  bottle  of  poison  in  his  desk  and 
would  take  it  if  I  wouldn't  agree  to  suppress  the 
story.  As  if  he'd  planned  exactly  that  scene  for 
years." 

"Aha,"  cried  Hy— "melodrama." 

"Precisely.    Melodrama.    It  was  unpleasant." 

"You  accepted  the  gentleman's  proposition,  I 
take  it." 

"I  dislike  murders." 

Hy,  considering  this,  stiffened  up.  "Say,"  he 
cried,  "what's  the  paper  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"I  saw  the  assistant  city  editor  this  evening  at  the 
Parisian  bar.  He  tells  me  they  have  decided  to  drop 
the  story.  But  they  dropped  me  first."  He  looked 
shrewdly  at  Hy.  "So  don't  worry.  You  can  count 
on  your  raise." 

Hy's  cigarette  had  gone  out.  He  looked  at  it, 
tossed  it  out  the  window,  lit  a  fresh  one. 

"Of  course,"  said  he,  "a  fellow  likes  to  know 
where  he  gets  off." 


276  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"Or  at  least  that  he  is  off,"  said  the  Worm,  and 
went  to  bed. 

Hy  let  him  go.  A  dreamy  expression  came  into 
his  eyes.  As  he  threw  off  coat  and  waistcoat  and 
started  unbuttoning  his  collar,  he  hummed  softly : 

"I  want  si-tw/>-athee, 
Si-fw/>-athee,  just  .rywp-ah-thee." 

He  embraced  an  imaginary  young  woman — a 
blonde  who  was  slow  of  speech  and  luxurious  in 
movements — and  danced  slowly,  rather  gracefully 
across  the  room. 

All  was  right  with  the  world ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI 

THOUGH  there  is  no  known  specific  for  heart- 
ache, there  are  palliatives.  One  such  Peter 
Ericson  Mann  found  in  the  head  barber's  chair  at 
the  strictly  sanitary  shop  of  Marius.  The  necessity, 
during  all  the  spring  months,  of  avoiding  this  shop 
had  irked  Peter;  for  he  was  given  to  worry  in  the 
matter  of  bacteria.  And  he  could  not  himself  shave 
his  thin  and  tender  skin  without  irritating  it  to  the 
point  of  eruption. 

The  shop  of  Marius  was  in  the  basement  of  that 
most  interesting  of  New  York  restaurants,  the 
Parisian.  The  place  is  wholly  French,  from  the 
large  trees  out  front  and  in  their  shade  the  sleepy 
victorias  always  waiting  at  the  curb  to  the  Looeys 
and  Sharlses  and  Gastongs  that  serve  you  within. 
It  is  there  a  distinction  to  be  known  of  the  maitre 
d'hotel,  an  achievement  to  nod  to  the  proprietor. 

Greenwich  Village,  when  in  funds,  dines, 
lunches,  breakfasts  at  the  Parisian.  Upper  West 
Side,  when  seeking  the  quaintly  foreign  dissociated 

277 


278  THE   TRUFFLERS 

from  squalor,  dines  there.  Upper  West  Side  always 
goes  up  the  wide  front  steps  and  through  the  busy 
little  office  into  the  airy  eating  rooms  with  full 
length  hinged  windows.  There  is  music  here;  a 
switchboard  youth  who  giftedly  blends  slang  with 
argot;  even,  it  has  been  reported,  an  interior  foun- 
tain. Greenwich  Village  now  and  again  ascends 
those  wide  front  steps ;  but  more  often  frequents  the 
basement  where  is  neither  fountain  nor  music, 
merely  chairs,  tables  and  ineffable  food ;  these  latter 
in  three  or  four  small  rooms  which  you  may  enter 
from  the  Avenue,  directly  under  the  steps,  or  from 
the  side  street  through  the  bar.  The  corner  room, 
nearest  the  bar,  is  a  haunt  of  such  newspaper  men  as 
live  in  the  neighborhood.  Also  in  the  basement  is 
a  rather  obscure  and  crooked  passage  extending 
from  the  bar  past  the  small  rooms  and  the  barber 
shop  of  Marius  to  the  equally  obscure  and  crooked 
stairway  that  leads  by  way  of  telephone  booths  and 
a  passage  to  the  little  office  hallway  and  the  upper 
restaurant.  The  whole,  apparently,  was  arranged 
with  the  mechanics  of  French  farce  uppermost  in 
the  mind  of  the  architect. 

Peter's  large  horn-rimmed  eye-glasses  hung  by 
their  heavy  black  ribbon  from  the  frame  of  the  mir- 
ror; his  long  person  lay,  relaxed,  in  the  chair.  His 


ENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI        279 

right  foot  rested  on  a  bent-wire  stand ;  and  kneeling 
respectfully  before  it,  polishing  the  shoe,  was  the 
boy  called  Theophile.  His  left  hand  lay  on  the  soft 
palm  of  Miss  Maria  Tonifetti  who  was  working 
soothingly,  head  bowed,  on  the  thumb  nail.  Miss 
Tonifetti  was  pretty.  She  happens  to  be  the  reason 
why  Peter  had  kept  away  from  the  shop  of  Marius 
all  spring.  These  Italian  girls,  from  below  Wash- 
ington Square,  were  known  to  be  of  an  impetuous 
temper.  Hy  Lowe  had  on  several  occasions  advised 
Peter  to  let  them  alone.  Hy  believed  that  they,  car- 
ried knives.  Now,  however,  finding  Maria  so  sub- 
dued, if  gloomily  emotional,  of  eye,  experiencing 
again  the  old  soft  thrill  as  her  deft  smooth  fingers 
touched  and  pressed  his  own,  he  was  seriously  con- 
sidering asking  her  out  to  dinner.  He  had  first 
thought  of  this  while  Marius  (himself)  was  plying 
the  razor.  (What  a  hand  had  Marius!)"  The  no- 
tion grew  during  the  drowsily  comfortable  shampoo 
that  came  next.  With  the  face  massage,  and  the 
steaming  towels  that  followed  it — one  of  these  now 
covered  his  face,  with  a  minute  breathing  hole  above 
the  nose — came  a  gentle  glow  of  tenderness  toward 
all  the  world  and  particularly  toward  Miss  Tonifetti. 
After  all,  he  had  never  intended  neglecting  her.  Life 
is  so  complex! 


280  THE   TRUFFLERS 

I  had  hoped  to  slip  through  this  narrative  with 
no  more  than  an  occasional  and  casual  allusion  to 
Maria.  But  this,  it  appears,  is  not  possible.  She 
matters.  And  even  at  the  risk  of  a  descent  into  un- 
romantic  actuality,  into  what  you  might  call  "real- 
ism," she  enters  at  this  point. 

Peter  himself,  like  most  of  us,  disliked  actuality. 
His  plays  were  all  of  duty  and  self-sacrifice  and 
brooding  tenderness  and  that  curious  structure  that 
is  known  throughout  the  theatrical  district  as 
Honor.  Honor  with  a  very  large  H — accompanied, 
usually,  with  a  declamatory  gesture  and  a  protrud- 
ing chest.  Sue,  at  her  first  meeting  with  Peter, 
when  she  talked  out  so  impulsively,  really  said  the 
last  word  about  his  plays.  Peter's  thoughts  of  him- 
self (and  these  never  flagged)  often  took  the  form 
of  recollecting  occasions  when  he  had  been  kind  to 
newsboys  or  when  he  had  lent  a  helping  hand  to 
needy  young  women  without  exacting  a  quid  pro 
quo.  The  occasions  when  he  had  not  been  kind  took 
the  memory-shape  of  proper  indignation  aroused 
by  bitter  injustice  to  himself.  He  had  suffered 
greatly  from  injustice  as  from  misunderstanding. 
Few,  indeed,  understood  him ;  which  fact  added  in- 
calculably to  the  difficulties  of  life. 

Now  just  a  word  of  recent  history  and  we  shall 


ENTER    MARIA   TONIFETTI        281 

get  on  with  our  story.  When  Sue  broke  her  engage- 
ment to  Peter  he  took  his  broken  heart  away  to  At- 
lantic City,  where  he  had  before  now  found  diver- 
sion and  the  impulse  to  work.  He  had  suffered 
deeply,  these  nearly  two  weeks.  His  food  had  not 
set  well.  The  thought  of  solitary  outdoor  exercise, 
even  ocean  swimming,  had  been  repellent.  And 
until  the  last  two  or  three  nights,  his  sleeplessness 
had  been  so  marked  as  really  to  worry  him.  Night 
after  night  he  had  caught  himself  sitting  straight 
up  in  bed  saying,  aloud,  harsh  things  to  the  penitent 
weeping  Sue  of  his  dreams.  Usually  after  these 
experiences  his  thoughts  and  nerves  had  proved  to 
be  in  such  a  tangle  that  his  only  recourse  had  been 
to  switch  on  the  lights  and,  with  a  trembling  hand 
and  an  ache  at  the  back  of  his  head,  plunge  into  his 
work.  The  work,  therefore  (it  was  a  new  play), 
had  gone  rather  well — so  well  that  when  the  expen- 
siveness  of  the  life  began  to  appear  really  alarming 
he  was  ready  to  come  back  to  the  old  haunts  and 
make  the  effort  to  hold  up  his  head.  He  had  got 
into  New  York  at  four-ten  and  come  down  to  the 
shop  of  Marius  by  taxi.  His  suit-case  and  grip  were 
over  in  the  corner  by  the  coat  rack. 

It  was  now  nearly  five-thirty.    The  face  massage 
was  over  with;  his  thick  dark  hair  had  been  brushed 


282  THE   TRUFFLERS 

into  place  by  the  one  barber  in  New  York  who  did 
not  ask  "Wet  or  dry?"  And  he  was  comfortably 
seated,  across  the  shop,  at  Miss  Tonifetti's  little 
wire-legged  table,  for  the  finishing  strokes  of  the 
buffer  and  the  final  soap-and-water  rinsing  in  the 
glass  bowl.  He  looked  at  the  bent  head  and  slightly 
drooping  shoulders  of  the  girl.  The  head  was 
nicely  poised.  The  hair  was  abundant  and  excep- 
tionally fine.  It  massed  well.  As  at  certain  other 
moments  in  the  dim  past  his  nature  reacted  pleas- 
antly to  some  esthetically  pleasing  quality  in  hair, 
head,  shoulders  and  curve  of  dark  cheek.  Just  then 
she  glanced  up,  flushed  perceptibly,  then  dropped 
her  eyes  and  went  on  with  her  work — which  con- 
sisted at  the  moment  in  giving  a  final  polish  by 
brushing  the  nails  lightly  with  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

The  glow  in  Peter's  heart  leaped  up  into  some- 
thing near  real  warmth.  He  leaned  forward, 
glanced  swiftly  about,  then  said,  low:  "It  has  been 
hard,  Maria — not  seeing  you." 

The  dark  head  bent  lower. 

"It  did  seem  best.    You  know." 

The  head  nodded  a  very  little — doubtfully. 

"There's  no  sense  in  being  too  hard  on  ourselves, 
Maria.  Suppose— oh,  .come  on  and  have  dinner 
with  me." 


ENTER    MARIA   TONIFETTI        283 

Again  the  head  was  inclined  in  assent.  And  he 
heard  her  whisper,  "Where?" 

Peter  thought  swiftly.  This  was  not  a  matter  for 
his  acquaintances  of  the  Square  and  Greenwich 
Village.  Then,  too,  a  gentleman  always  "protected 
the  girl."  Suddenly  he  remembered : 

"Meet  me  at  the  old  place — corner  of  Tenth.  We 
can  take  the  bus  up-town.  You  can't  get  off  early  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"All  right.  Say  twenty  after  to  half-past  seven. 
I'll  leave  my  bags  here  for  the  present." 

This,  after  all,  was  living !  It  was  best.  You  had 
to  keep  on.  And  it  would  be  nice  to  give  Maria  a 
good  time.  She  had  been  exacting  in  the  past,  given 
to  unexpected  outbursts,  a  girl  of  secretive  ways, 
but  of  violent  impulses,  that  she  seemed  always 
struggling  to  suppress.  He  had  noted  before  now  a 
passionate  sort  of  gloom  in  the  girl.  To-day,  though, 
she  was  charming,  gentle  enough  for  anybody. 
Yes,  for  old  times'  sake — in  memory  of  certain  in- 
tense little  episodes  they  two  had  shared,  he  would 
give  her  a  nice  evening.  .  .  .  With  such  thoughts 
he  complacently  lighted  a  cigarette,  smiled  covertly 
at  the  girl,  who  was  following  him  furtively  with 
her  big  dark  eyes  and  went  back  through  the 
crooked  corridor  to  the  bar. 


284  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Here  we  find  Hy  Lowe  engaged  in  buying  a 
drink  for  Sumner  Smith,  one  of  the  best-known  re- 
porters on  that  most  audaciously  unscrupulously 
brilliant  of  newspapers,  The  Evening  Earth.  Sum- 
ner Smith  was  fat,  sleepy-eyed,  close-mouthed.  He 
was  a  man  for  whom  Peter  felt  profound  if  cautious 
respect. 

But  his  thoughts  were  not  now  concerned  with  the 
locally  famous  reporter,  were  not  concerned,  for  the 
moment,  even  with  himself.  He  was  impressed  by 
the  spectacle  of  Hy  Lowe  standing  treat,  casually 
tossing  out  a  five-dollar  bank  note ;  so  much  so  that 
he  promptly  and  with  a  grin  accepted  Hy's  nod  as  an 
invitation  and  settled,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful 
consideration,  on  an  old-fashioned  whisky  cocktail. 

It  was  not  that  Hy  was  stingy;  simply  that  the 
task  of  dressing  well,  taking  in  all  the  new  shows  and 
entertaining  an  apparently  inexhaustible  army  of 
extraordinarily  pretty  girls  with  taxis  and  even  oc- 
casional wine  was  at  times  too  much  for  the  forty- 
five  a  week  that  Hy  earned. 

Now,  as  it  happened,  while  Peter  thought  about 
Hy,  Hy  was  thinking  about  Peter.  Not  six  times 
in  the  more  than  three  years  of  his  life  with  Peter 
and  the  Worm  had  Hy  seen  so  jovial  an  expres- 
sion on  the  long  face  of  the  well-known  playwright. 


ENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI        285 

The  man  was  self-conscious  to  the  point  of  mor- 
bidity. This  at  all  times,  dating  far,  far  back  of 
his  painful  relationship  with  Sue  Wilde,  back  of  his 
tempestuous  affair  with  Grace  Derring,  back  of  the 
curious  little  mix-up  with  that  Tonifetti  girl.  Lately 
he  had  been  growing  worse.  Why,  it  was  not  yet  a 
fortnight  since  he  had  fought  Zanin,  over  at  the 
Muscovy.  Then  Sue  had  broken  their  engagement, 
and  Peter  had  left  town  a  crushed  and  desperate 
man.  Hy  had  gone  to  the  trouble  of  worrying 
about  him;  an  exertion  which  he  was  now  inclined 
to  resent  a  bit.  He  had  even  mentioned  his  fears 
to  the  Worm;  which  sage  young  man  had  smiled 
and  observed  dryly  and  enigmatically,  "Peter  will 
never  really  love  anybody  else."  .  .  .  And 
now,  of  all  times,  Peter  was  grinning! 

The  journalist  left  them  to  read  Le  Sourire  and 
nibble  toast  in  the  corner  room.  Peter  cheerfully 
regarded  Hy's  new  homespun  suit,  his  real  Panama 
hat  with  a  colored  stripe  in  the  white  fluffy  band, 
his  flaming  new  tie  and  the  silk  shirt  of  exclusive 
pattern  beneath  it.  Hy  caught  this  scrutiny,  and 
returned  the  grin. 

"I'm  in  soft,  Pete,"  he  murmured.  "Got  a 
raise." 

"Not  out  of  old  Wilde?" 


286  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Hy  nodded.  "Considerable  story,  my  son.  First 
the  old  boy  fired  me.  That  was  at  nine-thirty  A.  M. 
I  went  out  and  made  a  day  of  it.  Then,  of  all 
things,  the  Worm  comes  into  the  office — " 

"The  Worm !    Henry  Bates  ?" 

"Yep.     He  was  on  The  Courier,  you  know." 

"Was?" 

"Was — and  isn't.  They  sent  him  up  with  a  stiff 
story  about  the  missionary  funds  we've  collected 
through  the  paper.  And  what  does  the  old  boy  do 
but  lock  him  out  and  holler  through  the  transom  that 
he'll  eat  poison,  just  like  that,  unless  the  Worm 
goes  back  and  kills  the  story." 

"And  what  does  the  Worm?" 

"As  per  instructions." 

"Kills  the  story?" 

"And  his  job  with  it.  He's  writing  a  novel  now 
— like  everybody  else.  Have  another,"  Hy  added 
cheerfully,  "on  the  old  Walrus'  partner  in  crime." 
Peter  had  another. 

"The  rest  of  it  is" — this  from  Hy — "I  come  in  at 
four-thirty  that  afternoon  to  pack  up  my  things,  and 
the  Reverend  Doctor  Wilde  hands  me  a  raise.  I  get 
sixty  now.  I  am  on  that  famous  road  to  wealth." 

"But  what  on  earth—" 


ENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI        287 

Hy  chuckled.  "Worm  says  the  old  boy  thought 
I  knew." 

"Ah !"  breathed  Peter.    "Ah !" 

"Can't  say  I  wonder  at  Sue's  leaving  home,  hit- 
ting out  for  the  self-expression  thing."  Hy  grew 
more  expansive  as  the  liquor  spread  its  glowing 
warmth  within  his  person.  Otherwise  he  would 
hardly  have  spoken  of  Sue,  even  on  the  strength  of 
that  genial  grin  of  Peter's. 

Peter  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  mahogany  bar  and 
slowly  sipped.  "I  wonder  if  Sue  suspects  this."  It 
was  not  easy  for  him  to  speak  her  name.  But  he 
did  speak  it,  with  an  apparent  casualness  worthy  of 
Waters  Coryell. 

"Probably  not.  I've  worked  at  his  elbow  for 
years  and  never  dreamed."  He  sighed.  "It's  hard 
to  see  where  a  girl  of  any  spirit  gets  off  these  days. 
From  my  experience  with  'em,  I'm  convinced  that 
home  is  the  safest  place  for  'em,  and  yet  it's  only  the 
dead  ones  that'll  give  up  and  stay  there." 

Peter  did  not  reply.  His  brows  were  loiit,  but 
not,  apparently,  in  concentration,  for  his  eyes  wan- 
dered. He  said  something  about  getting  his  bags 
over  to  the  rooms;  started  irresolutely  down  the 
passage  toward  the  barber  shop;  stopped;  pressed 


288  THE    TRUFFLERS 

his  fingers  to  his  mouth ;  came  back,  passing  Hy  as 
if  he  didn't  see  him  and  went  on  out  to  the  side 
street.  Here  he  stopped  again. 

The  side  street  was  narrow.  A  cross-town  car 
shut  off  most  of  his  view  of  the  Avenue,  a  few  yards 
away.  Then  it  passed,  and  he  saw  a  young  couple 
strolling  across  toward  the  restaurant.  The  man — 
large,  heavy  of  hand  and  foot,  a  peasant-like  face 
curiously  lighted  by  burning  eyes,  better  dressed 
than  usual — was  Jacob  Zanin.  The  girl — slim,  as- 
tonishingly fresh  and  pretty,  not  wearing  the  old 
tarn  o'  shanter  and  haphazard  costume  he  associated 
with  her,  but  a  simple  light  suit — was  Sue  Wilde; 
the  girl  who  by  her  hardness  and  selfishness  had 
hurt  Peter  irreparably.  There  they  were,  chatting 
casually,  quite  at  ease — Zanin,  who  didn't  believe  in 
marriage,  who  had  pursued  Sue  with  amazing  pa- 
tience for  nearly  two  years,  who  had  wrecked  Pe- 
ter's pocket ;  Sue,  who  had  broken  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

PETER    IS   DRIVEN    TO    ACT 

THE  spectacle  stopped  Peter's  brain.  Among 
all  the  wild  pictures  that  had  rushed  helter 
skelter  through  his  overwrought  mind  of  late  there 
had  been  nothing  like  this.  Why,  it  was  only  a  mat- 
ter of  days  since  he  and  Zanin  had  pummeled  each 
other  to  an  accompaniment  of  broken  chairs,  over- 
turned tables,  wrecked  china,  torn  clothing,  actual 
blood.  He  had  pictured  Sue,  a  confused  disillu- 
sioned girl,  rushing  back  to  her  home;  Zanin  a 
marked  man,  even  in  the  Village,  cowering  away 
from  his  fellows.  But  this ! 

They  passed  the  corner.  With  a  great  gulp  of 
sheer  emotion  Peter  followed,  almost  running. 
They  turned  into  the  Parisian — but  not  into  the 
familiar  basement.  Instead  they  mounted  the  wide 
front  steps,  as  matter-of-fact  as  any  two  Upper 
West  Siders  out  of  a  limousine.  Peter  pressed  his 
hands  to  his  eyes.  He  looked  again.  They  had 
vanished  within  the  building. 

Peter  walked  back  and  forth.  He  told  himself 
289 


290  THE    TRUFFLERS 

that  he  must  think.  But  the  fact  clear  even  to  his 
overwhelmed  consciousness  was  that  he  was  not 
thinking  and  that  there  was  no  immediate  prospect 
of  his  being  able  to  think.  He  went  a  whole  block 
up  the  side  street,  stemming  the  thick  tide  of  Jewish 
working  girls  from  University  Place  and  the  lower 
Broadway  district  and  men  in  overalls — muttering 
aloud,  catching  himself,  compressing  his  lips,  then 
muttering  again.  "She  played  with  me!"  So  ran 
the  muttering.  "She  is  utterly  lacking  in  responsi- 
bility, in  any  sense  of  obligation.  She  lacks  spiritu- 
ality. That  is  it,  she  lacks  spirituality.  She  has  no 
fineness.  She  is  hard — hard!  She  is  drifting  like 
a  leaf  on  these  crazy  Village  currents  of  irrepressi- 
ble self-indulgence.  I  tried  to  save  her — God  knows 
I  tried!  I  did  my  best!  I  can't  be  blamed  if  she 
goes  to  pieces  now !  I  can  do  no  more — I  must  let 
her  go !"  But  even  while  he  spoke  he  gulped  again ; 
his  face,  nearly  gray  now,  twisting  painfully.  He 
suddenly  turned  and  rushed  back  to  the  Parisian. 

He  paused  at  the  side  doorway  and  peered  in. 
Hy  was  not  in  evidence.  A  later  glance,  from 
within  the  barroom,  disclosed  that  slightly  illumi- 
nated young  man  in  the  corner  room  of  the  restau- 
rant hanging  over  the  table  at  which  the  taciturn 
Sumner  Smith  was  still  trying  to  read  Le  Sou/rire. 


PETER   IS    DRIVEN    TO   ACT,       291 

Peter  went  on  into  the  crooked  passage,  passed 
the  open  doors  of  two  eating  rooms  where  only  the 
first  early  diners  had  as  yet  drifted  in,  found  him- 
self at  the  door  of  the  barber  shop,  stopped  short, 
then  seeing  the  familiar  figure  of  Maria  Tonifetti 
approaching  her  table  in  the  corner,  dodged  back 
and  into  the  washroom.  Here  the  boy  named  Ana- 
tole  said,  "Good  evening,  Meester  Mann,"  and  filled 
a  basin  for  him.  Peter  dipped  his  hands  into  the 
warm  water  and  washed  them.  He  was  surprised 
to  find  his  forehead  dripping  with  sweat.  He  dried 
his  hands,  removed  his  glasses  and  scrubbed  his 
face.  He  turned  on  the  cold  water,  wet  a  towel 
and  pressed  it  to  his  temples  and  the  back  of  his 
head,  taking  care  not  to  wet  his  collar.  His  hands 
were  trembling.  And  that  impulse  to  talk  aloud 
was  rising  uncontrollably.  He  went  back  to  the 
corridor;  stood  motionless,  breathing  deeply;  re- 
called with  the  force  of  an  inspiration  that  Napo- 
leon had  feared  nothing,  not  even  the  ladies  with 
whose  lives  his  own  had  become  so  painfully  entan- 
gled and  walked  deliberately,  staring  straight  before 
him,  past  that  barber  shop  door. 

At  the  foot  of  the  crooked  stairway  he  paused 
again.  And  again  his  face  was  twisting.  "I've  got 
to  mate  the  one  more  effort,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  for 


292  THE   TRUFFLERS 

myself,  God  knows !  I  gave  her  my  love — I  pledged 
her  my  life — I  have  suffered  for  her — I  would  have 
saved  her  if  she  had  played  fair!  I've  got  to  make 
this  last  effort!" 

He  mounted  the  stairs,  crowded  past  the  tele- 
phone booths,  staring  at  them  as  he  went.  They 
conveyed  a  suggestion  to  his  mind.  He  stepped 
cautiously  to  the  restaurant  door,  nodded  to  the 
maitre  d'hotel  and  glanced  in.  The  nearer  room 
was  empty ;  but  beyond  the  second  doorway,  Zanin's 
shoulder  and  profile  were  visible.  Sue  he  could  not 
see,  but  she  must  be  sitting  there.  Yes,  Zanin  was 
leaning  forward,  was  speaking,  even  smiling,  in  that 
offhand  way  of  his ! 

Peter,  flushing  now,  turned  away ;  confronted  the 
boy  called  Raoul;  pressed  a  silver  quarter  into  his 
palm.  "Page,  Miss  Wilde,"  he  breathed  huskily. 
"Tell  her  she  is  wanted  on  the  phone." 

The  boy  named  Raoul  obeyed.  At  the  Parisian 
it  is  not  regarded  as  surprising  that  a  gentleman 
should  wish  to  speak  to  a  lady. 

Peter  rushed  around  the  turn  and  waited  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  row  of  booths. 

Finally  he  heard  her  step. 

When  she  saw  him  she  stopped.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
"Peter!"  And  she  frowned  a  very  little. 


PETER    IS    DRIVEN    TO    ACT       293 

"It  was  a  deception,"  he  broke  out,  "but  I  had 
to  see  you,  Sue!  I  know  you  are  with  Zanin.  I 
saw  you  come  in.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  it, 
but  we'll  let  that  pass.  I — " 

"What  is  it,  Peter?  What  do  you  want  with 
me?" 

"Oh,  Sue !  Are  you  as  hard  as  that  ?  What  do  I 
want  of  you !  Good  God !  When  I  see  you,  after 
all  I  have  suffered  for  your  sake,  plunging  back  into 
this  life — taking  up  with  that  crook  Zanin  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  as  if —  Why,  he — " 

Sue  grew  a  little  white  about  the  mouth  and  tem- 
ples. She  glanced  back  at  the  empty  passage. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  curiously  quiet,  "if  you  think 
it  fair  to  follow  me  into  a  public  place,  if  you  really 
mean  to  make  another  hideous  scene,  you  will  have 
to  come  into  the  dining-room  to  do  it." 

He  reached  out,  caught  her  arm.  She  wrenched 
away  and  left  him  there.  For  a  long  moment  he 
stared  out  the  window  at  the  rush  of  early  evening 
traffic  on  the  Avenue,  his  hands  clenched  at  his 
sides.  Then  he  hurried  past  the  office  and  down  to 
the  street. 

He  stood  on  the  curb  and  addressed  a  rattling 
autobus.  "It  is  unbearable — unbelievable.  The  girl 
has  lost  all  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  She  is  be- 


294  THE    TRUFFLERS 

side  herself.  I  must  act — act !  I  must  act  at  once — 
to-night !" 

People  were  passing.  He  turned,  suddenly  aware 
of  the  bustlingly  unsympathetic  world  about  him. 
Had  any  one  heard  his  voice?  Apparently  none 
had.  All  were  hurrying  on,  up-town,  down-town. 
Standing  there  on  the  curb  he  could  see  in  at  the 
basement  window.  Sumner  Smith  was  alone  at  last 
and  deep  in  Le  Sourire.  Hy  had  drifted  away — 
back  to  the  bar,  doubtless. 

Peter,  you  recall,  was  a  genius.  As  a  genius  he 
fed  on  his  emotional  reactions;  they  were  his  life. 
Therefore  do  not  judge  him  too  harshly  for  the 
wild  thought  that  at  this  point  rushed  over  his  con- 
sciousness with  a  force  that  left  him  breathless.  He 
was  frightened  and  by  himself.  But  there  was  a 
barbarous  exaltation  in  his  fear.  "It'll  bring  her  to 
her  senses,"  he  thought.  "I've  got  to  do  it.  Then 
she'll  listen  to  me.  She'll  have  to  listen  to  me  then." 

Peter  appeared  in  the  corner  room  down-stairs, 
almost  as  curiously  quiet  as  Sue  had  been  in  their 
brief  talk.  He,  too,  was  rather  pale.  He  came  over 
to  Sumner  Smith's  table,  dropped  down  opposite  the 
fat  journalist,  beckoned  a  waiter,  ordered  a  light 
dinner,  and,  that  done,  proffered  a  cigarette. 

"I've  got  a  tip  for  you,  Smith,"  he  said,  "a  real 


one.  If  The  Evening  Earth  hasn't  lost  its  vigor  you 
can  put  it  over  big." 

The  fat  man  merely  lighted  his  cigarette  and 
looked  inscrutably  over  it  at  Peter's  drawn  face. 

"I  can't  give  you  the  details.  You'll  have  to  take 
my  word  for  them.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  question 
raised  regarding  the  Reverend  Doctor  Wilde?" 

Sumner  Smith  glanced  out  toward  the  bar  and 
Hy.  The  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched.  "His 
boss?" 

"Right.  Editor  of  My  Brother's  Keeper.  Au- 
thor of  the  famous  missionary  sermons." 

"There  was  a  little  talk  last  year.  You  mean  the 
big  mission  funds  he  has  raised  ?" 

Peter  nodded.    His  eyes  were  overbright  now. 

"Nobody  has  the  evidence,  Mann.  It  isn't  news 
as  it  stands." 

"Suppose  you  could  make  it  news — big  news." 

"Oh,  of  course — "the  journalist  gestured  with 
his  cigarette. 

"Well,  you  can.  To-night.  Go  straight  to  his 
house — over  in  Stuyvesant  Square,  not  five  minutes 
in  a  taxi,  not  ten  on  the  cars — and  ask  him  point- 
blank  to  consent  to  an  accounting.  Just  ask  him." 

Sumner  Smith  mused.  "It  might  be  worth  try- 
ing," he  said. 


296  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"Take  my  word  for  it." 

The  journalist  paid  his  check,  rose,  nodded  to  an 
acquaintance  across  the  room,  said:  "I'll  think  it 
over,  Mann.  Much  obliged — "  and  sauntered  out. 

This  was  unsatisfactory.  Peter,  crestfallen,  for- 
got that  Sumner  Smith  was  hardened  to  sensations. 
And  peering  gloomily  after  the  great  reporter,  he 
only  half  saw  the  man  pause  at  the  small  desk  near 
the  -bar,  then  speak  casually  to  the  now  somewhat 
wobbly  Hy  Lowe ;  he  only  half  heard  a  taxi  pull  up 
outside,  a  door  slamming,  the  sudden  grinding  of 
gears  as  the  taxi  darted  away.  There  were  so  many 
noises  outside ;  you  hardly  noticed  one  more. 

The  waiter  brought  his  dinner.  He  bolted  it  with 
unsteady  hands.  "I  must  think  this  all  out,"  he  told 
himself.  "If  Sumner  Smith  won't  do  it,  one  of  the 
other  Earth  men  will.  Or  some  one  on  The  Morning 
Continental." 

He  lit  a  cigar,  sat  back  and  gazed  out  at  the  dim 
street  where  dimmer  figures  and  vehicles  moved 
forever  by.  It  occurred  to  him  that  thus  would  a 
man  sit  and  smoke  and  meditate  who  was  moved  by 
an  overmastering  love  to  enact  a  tremendous  deed. 
But  it  was  difficult  to  sustain  the  pose  with  his  tem- 
ples throbbing  madly  and  a  lump  in  his  throat.  His 


PETER   IS    DRIVEN    TO    ACT       297 

heart,  too,  was  skipping  beats,  he  thought     Surrep- 
titiously he  felt  his  left  wrist. 

He  beckoned  the  waiter;  ordered  paper  and  ink. 
The  lump  in  his  throat  was  suddenly  almost  a  pain. 
He  wrote — 

"It  was  wrong  of  me,  of  course,  Sue,  dear.  But 
I  really  must  see  you.  Even  though  your  hostile  at- 
titude makes  it  difficult  to  be  myself.  There  is 
trouble  impending.  It  concerns  you  vitally.  If  you 
will  only  hear  me;  meet  me  for  half  an  hour  after 
dinner,  I  know  I  can  help  you  more  than  you  dream. 

"I  am  not  speaking  for  myself  but  for  you.  In  all 
this  dreadful  trouble  between  us,  there  is  little  I  can 
ask  of  yuu.  Only  this — give  me  half  an  hour.  I 
will  wait  down-stairs  for  an  answer.  P.  E.  M." 

He  sent  this  up-stairs.  Then  followed  it  as  far  as 
the  telephones,  called  up  his  old  acquaintance,  Mark- 
ham,  of  The  Morning  Continental,  and  whispered 
darkly  to  him  over  the  wire. 

As  he  ran  down-stairs  and  dodged  past  the  barber 
shop  door,  he  became  conscious  that  the  dinner  he 
had  eaten  felt  now  like  a  compact,  insoluble  ball  in 
the  region  of  his  solar  plexus.  So  he  stopped  at  the 
bar  and  gulped  a  bicarbonate  of  soda  while  buying 
a  highball  for  Hy  Lowe  whom  he  found  confiden- 
tially informing  the  barkeeper  of  his  raise  from 
forty-five  a  week  to  sixty. 


298  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Then  he  resumed  his  seat  by  the  window  in  the 
corner  room;  tried  to  find  amusement  in  the  pages 
of  Le  Sourire;  failed;  watched  the  door  with  wild 
eyes,  starting  up  whenever  a  waiter  entered  the 
room,  only  to  sink  back  limply  at  each  fresh  dis- 
appointment. 

He  wondered  suddenly  about  Sumner  Smith. 
What  if  he  had  followed  the  trail!  This  thought 
brought  something  like  a  chill.  If  he,  Peter,  an  old 
newspaper  man,  were  to  be  caught  in  the  act  of 
passing  on  an  "exclusive"  tip  to  friends  on  compet- 
ing papers — violating  the  sacred  basis  of  newspaper 
ethics!  You  couldn't  tell  about  Smith.  He  rarely 
showed  interest,  never  emotion,  seldom  even  smiled. 
He  would  receive  the  news  that  Emperor  William 
had  declared  himself  King  of  All  the  Americas  with 
that  same  impassive  front. 

Peter  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  twenty-five 
minutes  of  seven.  He  had  thought  it  at  least  eight. 

One  thing  was  certain — he  must  get  his  bags  out 
of  that  awful  barber  shop  before  it  closed.  Accord- 
ingly he  had  a  messenger  called  to  take  them,  over 
to  the  rooms. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER 

THE  familiar  person  of  the  Worm  came  in 
through  the  bar,  stood  in  the  doorway,  looked 
about  with  quiet  keen  eyes — tall,  carelessly  dressed, 
sandy  of  hair  but  mild  and  reflective  of  countenance. 

The  Worm's  eyes  rested  on  Peter.  He  came 
across  the  room. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Peter,  smiling,  his  mouth  a 
curving  crack  in  a  ghastly  face. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Worm,  "you've  heard?" 

"Heard  what?" 

The  Worm  studied  him  a  moment ;  then  said,  not 
without  a  touch  of  grave  sympathy,  "Tell  me,  Pete 
— do  you  happen  to  know  where  Sue  is  ?" 

Peter  heard  this;  tried  to  steady  himself  and 
speak  in  the  properly  casual  tone.  He  swallowed. 
Then  the  words  rushed  out — low,  trembling,  all  bit- 
terness: "She's  up-stairs — with  Zanin!" 

The  Worm  turned  away.    Peter  caught  his  arm. 

"For  God's  sake!"  he  said.  "What  is  it?  What 
do  you  want  of  her?  If  anybody's  got  to  tell  her 

299 


300  THE    TRUFFLERS 

anything,  it'll  be  me!"  And  he  pushed  back  his 
chair. 

The  Worm  laid  a  strong  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
held  him  firmly  down  in  the  chair. 

"Pete,"  he  said — quiet,  deliberate — "if  you  try  to 
go  up  those  stairs  I  myself  will  throw  you  down." 

Peter  struggled  a  little.  "But — but — good  God ! 
Who  do  you  think  you  are!  You  mean  to  say — " 
He  stopped  short,  stared  up  at  the  Worm,  swal- 
lowed again.  Then,  "I  get  you!"  he  said.  "I  get 
you!  Like  the  damn  fool  I  am,  I  never  dreamed. 
So  you're  after  her,  too.  You,  with  your  books,  your 
fine  disinterestedness,  your  easy  friendly  ways — 
you're  out  for  yourself,  behind  that  bluff,  just  like 
the  rest  of  us !" 

The  Worm  glanced  about  the  room.  Neither  had 
raised  his  voice.  No  one  was  giving  them  any  par- 
ticular attention.  He  relaxed  his  grip  of  Peter's 
arm;  dropped  into  the  chair  opposite;  leaned  over 
the  table  on  folded  arms ;  fixed  his  rather  compelling 
eyes  on  Peter's  ashen  face. 

"Pete,"  he  said,  very  quiet,  very  steady,  "listen 
to  me  carefully.  And  don't  spill  any  paranoia  to- 
night. If  you  do — if  you  start  anything  like  that 
crazy  fight  at  the  Muscovy — I'll  take  a  hand  myself. 
Now  sit  quiet  and  try  to  hear  what  I  say." 

Peter  was  still  swallowing.     The  Worm  went 


SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER  301 

steadily  on.  "A  neighbor  of  the  Wilde's  just  now 
called  up  the  apartment.  They  thought  they  might 
get  Hy  Lowe  to  find  Sue  and  fetch  her  home.  But 
Hy— " 

"He's—"  began  Peter. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him.  He's  outside  here.  He  wants 
to  sit  on  the  curbstone  and  read  the  evening  paper. 
A  couple  of  chauffeurs  were  reasoning  with  him 
when  I  came  in.  I'm  going  to  find  her  myself." 

"But  what's  happened!    You — " 

"Her  father  has  taken  poison.  They  think  he  is 
dying.  His  wife  went  right  to  pieces.  Everything 
a  mess — and  two  young  children.  They  hadn't  even 
got  the  doctor  in  when  this  man  telephoned.  He 
thinks  the  old  boy  is  gone." 

"But — but — that's  absurd!  It  couldn't  act  so 
quickly !" 

The  Worm  stared;  his  face  set  perceptibly.  "It 
has  acted.  He  didn't  take  the  bichloride  route.  He 
drank  carbolic." 

"But  that— that's  awful!" 

"Yes,  it's  awful.  There's  a  newspaper  man  there, 
raising  hell.  They  can't  get  him  out — or  couldn't. 
Now  keep  this  straight — if  you  go  one  step  up  those 
stairs  or  if  you  try  to  come  out  and  speak  to  Sue 
before  I  get  her  away,  I'll  break  your  head." 


302  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"She'll  send  for  me,"  said  Peter,  sputtering. 
"Perhaps,"  observed  Henry  Bates;  and  swiftly 
left  the  room. 

*• 

Sue  Wilde  returned  from  her  brief  interview  with 
Peter.  Two  or  three  groups  of  early  diners  greeted 
her  as  she  passed. 

Jacob  Zanin  watched  her — her  brisk  little  nod 
and  quiet  smile  for  these  acquaintances,  her  curi- 
ously boylike  grace,  the  fresh  tint  of  her  olive  skin. 
She  was  a  bit  thin,  he  thought;  her  hard  work  as 
principal  actress  in  the  Nature  Film,  coupled  with 
the  confusion  he  knew  she  had  passed  through  dur- 
ing that  brief  wild  engagement  to  Peter  Mann,  had 
worn  her  down. 

She  had  always  puzzled  him.  She  puzzled  him 
now,  as  she  resumed  her  seat,  met  his  gaze,  said: 
"Jacob,  give  me  a  cigarette." 

"Sue — you're  off  them." 

"While  the  film  job  was  on.  Breaking  training 
now,  Jacob." 

"Well,"  he  mused  aloud,  "I  made  you  stop  for 
good  reason  enough.  But  now  I'm  not  sure  that 
you're  not  wise."  And  he  tossed  his  box  across  the 
table. 

While  she  lighted  the  cigarette,  he  studied  her. 


SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER  303 

None  knew  better  than  he  the  interesting  variety  of 
girls  who  came  to  the  Village  to  seek  freedom — 
some  on  intense  feministic  principles  (Sue  among 
these),  others  in  search  of  the  nearly  mythical  coun- 
try called  Bohemia,  still  others  in  the  knowledge  that 
there  they  might  walk  unquestioned  without  the  cap 
of  good  repute.  There  were  cliques  and  cliques  in 
the  Village;  but  all  were  in  agreement  regarding  a 
freedom  for  woman  equal  to  the  experimental  free- 
dom of  man.  Love  was  admitted  as  a  need.  The  hu- 
man race  was  frankly  a  welter  of  animals  struggling 
upward  in  the  long  process  of  evolution — struggling 
wonderfully.  Conventional  morality  was  hypocrisy 
and  therefore  a  vice.  Frankness  regarding  all 
things,  an  open  mind  toward  any  astonishing  new 
theory  in  the  psychology  of  the  human  creature,  the 
divine  right  of  the  ego  to  realize  itself  at  all  costs, 
a  fine  scorn  for  all  proverbial  wisdom,  something 
near  a  horror  of  the  home,  the  church,  and  the  prac- 
tical business  world — a  blend  of  these  was  the  Vil- 
lage, to  be  summed  up,  perhaps,  in  Waters  Cor- 
yell's  languid  remark:  "I  find  it  impossible  to  (alk 
with  any  one  who  was  born  before  1880." 

Zanin  had  known  many  women.  In  his  own 
way  he  had  loved  not  a  few.  With  these  he 
had  been  hard,  but  not  dishonest.  He  was  a 


304  THE   TRUFFLERS 

materialist,  an  anarchist,  a  self-exploiter,  ambitious 
and  unrestrained,  torn  within  by  the  overmastering 
restlessness  that  was  at  once  the  great  gift  and  the 
curse  of  his  blood.  He  wanted  always  something 
else,  something  more.  He  was  strong,  fertile  of 
mind,  able.  He  had  vision  and  could  suffer.  The 
companionship  of  a  woman — here  and  there,  now 
and  then — meant  much  to  him;  but  he  demanded 
of  her  that  she  give  as  he  would  give,  without  sac- 
rifice of  work  or  self,  without  obligation.  Nothing 
but  what  the  Village  terms  "the  free  relation"  was 
possible  for  Zanin.  Within  his  peculiar  emotional 
range  he  had  never  wanted  a  woman  as  he  had 
wanted  Sue.  He  had  never  given  himself  to  an- 
other woman,  in  energy  and  companionship,  as  he 
had  given  himself  to  her. 

She  had  eluded  him.  She  had  also  eluded  Peter. 
Zanin  was  capable  of  despising  young  women  who 
talked  freedom  but  were  afraid  to  live  it.  There 
were  such;  right  here  in  the  Village  there  were 
such.  But  he  did  not  think  Sue's  case  so  simple  as 
that.  He  spoke  out  now : 

"Been  thinking  you  over,  Sue." 

She  deposited  the  ash  of  her  cigarette  on  a  plate, 
glanced  gravely  up  at  him,  then  lowered  her  eyes 
again. 


SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER  305 

"Any  result,  Jacob?" 

"You  haven't  found  yourself." 

That's  right,"  said  she,  "I  haven't.  Have  you 
found  me?" 

He  slowly  shook  his  head.  "I  think  you're 
doomed  to  grope  for  a  while  longer.  I  believe  you 
have  a  good  deal  to  find — more  than  some.  You  re- 
member a  while  back  when  I  urged  you  to  take  a 
trip  with  me?" 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyes  at  this;  merely  gazed 
thoughtfully  down  at  her  cigarette.  He  went  on : 

"I  thought  I  could  help  you.  I  thought  you 
needed  love.  It  seemed  to  be  the  next  thing  for 
you." 

"Yes,"  said  she  rather  shortly — "you  told  me 
that." 

"Well,  I  was  wrong.  Or  my  methods  were. 
Something,  I  or  some  force,  stirred  you  and  to  a  bad 
result.  You  turned  from  me  toward  marriage.  That 
plan  was  worse." 

She  seemed  about  to  protest;  looked  up  now, 
threw  out  her  hands. 

"At  least,"  he  pressed  on,  "as  a  plan,  it  didn't 
carry." 

Her  fine  brows  drew  together  perceptibly.  "That's 
over,  Jacob." 


306  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"All  right."  He  settled  back  in  his  chair  and 
looked  about  the  long  room.  It  was  filling  rapidly. 
There  were  long  hair  and  flowing  ties,  evening  suits, 
smart  gowns,  bright  lights,  gay  talk  in  two  tongues, 
and  just  now,  music.  "Tell  me  this  much,  Sue. 
What  are  you  up  to  ?  There's  no  more  Crossroads, 
no  more  Nature  Film — lord,  but  that  was  a  job! 
No  more  of  that  absurd  engagement.  This  is  why 
I  dragged  you  out  to-night.  I'm  wondering  about 
you.  What  are  you  doing?" 

"Jacob,"  she  said,  "I'm  drifting." 

"I  heard  you  were  trying  to  write." 

"Trying — yes !  A  girl  has  to  appear  to  be  doing 
something." 

"No  plans  at  all,  eh?" 

She  met  this  with  silent  assent. 

Again  he  looked  about  the  sprightly  room;  de- 
liberately thinking.  Once  she  glanced  up  at  him; 
then  waited. 

"Sue,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  see  you  a  little  more 
clearly.  If  I'm  wrong,  correct  me.  You  have  an 
unusual  amount  of  strength — or  something.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  I'll  fall  back  on  the  safe  old  word, 
personality.  You've  got  plenty  of  intelligence.  And 
your  stage  work,  your  dancing — you're  gifted  as  all 
get-out.  But  you're  like  clockwork,  you're  no  good 


unless  your  mainspring  is  working.  You  have  to  be 
wound  up." 

For  the  first  time  in  this  talk  Sue's  green-brown 
eyes  lighted.  She  leaned  over  the  table  now  and 
spoke  with  a  flash  of  feeling. 

"That's  it,  I  believe,"  she  said.  "I've  got  to  feel 
deeply — about  something.  I've  got  to  have  a  re- 
ligion." 

"Exactly,  Sue.  There's  a  fanatical  strain  in  you. 
YoU  came  into  the  Village  life  fresh  from  college 
with  a  whole  set  of  brand-new  enthusiasms.  Fanat- 
ical enthusiasms.  The  attitude  toward  life  that 
most  of  us  take  for  granted — like  it,  feel  it,  just 
because  it  is  us — you  came  at  us  like  a  wild  young 
Columbus.  You  hadn't  always  believed  it." 

"I  always  resented  parental  authority,"  said  she. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I'm  not  sure  your  revolt  wasn't 
more  a  personal  reaction  than  a  social  theory.  They 
tried  to  tie  you  down.  Your  father — well,  the  less 
said  about  him  the  better.  Preaching  that  old,  old, 
false  stuff,  commercializing  it,  stifling  your  growth." 

"Don't  let's  discuss  him,  Jacob." 

"Very  good.  But  the  home  was  a  conspiracy 
against  you.  His  present  wife  isn't  your  mother, 
you  told  me  once." 

"No,  she  isn't  my  mother." 


308  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Well" — he  paused,  thinking  hard — "look  here, 
Sue,  what  in  thunder  are  you  to  do!  You're  no 
good  without  that  mainspring,  that  faith." 

She  was  silent,  studying  the  table  between  them 
— silent,  sober,  not  hostile.  Life  was  not  a  joyous 
crusade;  it  was  a  grim  dilemma.  And  an  insistent 
pressure.  She  knew  this  now.  The  very  admira- 
tion she  felt  for  this  strong  man  disarmed  her  in 
resisting  him.  He  told  the  bald  truth.  She  had 
fought  him  away  once,  only  to  involve  herself  with 
the  impossible  Peter;  an  experience  that  now  left 
her  the  weaker  before  him.  He  knew  this,  of 
course.  And  he  was  a  man  to  use  every  resource 
in  getting  what  he  wanted.  There  was  little  to  ob- 
ject to  in  him,  if  you  accepted  him  at  all.  And  she 
had  accepted  him.  As  in  a  former  crisis  between 
them,  he  made  her  feel  a  coward. 

"It  brings  me  back  to  the  old  topic,  Sue.  I  could 
help  you,  if  you  could  let  me.  You  have  fought 
love  down.  You  tried  to  compromise  on  marriage. 
Nothing  in  that.  Better  live  your  life,  girl!  You've 
got  to  keep  on.  You  can't  conceivably  marry  Peter ; 
you  can't  drift  along  here  without  a  spark  alight  in 
you,  fighting  life;  you  can't  go  back  home,  licked. 
God  knows  you  can't  do  that!  Give  me  a  chance, 


SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER  309 

Sue.  Try  me.  Stop  this  crazy  resistance  to  your 
own  vital  needs.  Damn  it,  be  human!" 

Sue,  lips  compressed,  eyes  misty,  color  rising  a 
little,  looked  up,  avoided  Zanin's  eyes;  gazed  as  he 
had  been  doing,  about  the  room.  And  coming  in 
through  the  wide  door  she  saw  the  long  figure  of 
Henry  Bates,  whom  friends  called  the  Worm.  She 
watched  him,  compressing  her  lips  a  little  more, 
knitting  her  brows,  while  he  stood  looking  from 
table  to  table.  His  calm  face,  unassertive,  reflective, 
whimsical  in  the  slight  squint  of  the  eyes,  was  deeply 
reassuring.  She  was  fond  of  Henry  Bates. 

He  came  across  the  room;  greeted  Zanin  briefly; 
gripped  Sue's  hand. 

"Sit  down,  Henry,"  said  she. 

He  stood  a  moment,  considering  the  two  of  them, 
then  took  the  chair  a  waiter  slid  forward. 

"I'm  here  on  a  curious  mission,  Sue,"  he  said. 
She  felt  the  touch  of  solemnity  in  his  voice  and  gave 
him  a  quick  glance.  "I've  been  sent  to  find  you." 

"What" — said  she,  all  nerves — "what  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"An  accident.  At  your  home,  Sue.  They  believe 
that  your  father  is  dying.  He  has  asked  for  you. 
It  was  a  neighbor  who  called — a  Mr.  Deems — and 


310  THE   TRUFFLERS 

from  what  little  he  could  tell  me  I  should  say  that 
you  are  needed  there." 

Her  hands  moved  nervously ;  she  threw  them  out 
in  the  quick  way  she  had  and  started  to  speak ;  then 
giving  it  up  let  them  drop  and  pushed  back  her 
chair.  For  the  moment  she  seemed  to  see  neither 
man :  her  gaze  went  past  them ;  her  mouth  twitched. 

Zanin  sat  back,  smoked,  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  He  was  suddenly  out  of  it.  He  had  never 
known  a  home,  in  Russia  or  America.  There  was 
something  between  Henry  Bates  and  Sue  Wilde,  a 
common  race  memory,  a  strain  in  their  spiritual 
fiber  that  he  did  not  share ;  something  he  could  not 
even  guess  at.  .Whatever  it  was,  he  could  see  it 
gripping  her,  touching  and  rousing  hidden  depths. 
So  much  her  face  told  him.  He  kept  silent. 

She  turned  to  him  now.  "You'll  excuse  me,  Ja- 
cob?" she  said,  very  quiet. 

"You're  going,  then?"  said  he.  He  was  true  to 
his  creed.  There  was  no  touch  of  conventional  sen- 
timent in  his  voice.  He  had  despised  everything  her 
father's  life  meant;  he  despised  it  now. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  nodded  with  sudden  nervous 
energy — a  rising  color  in  her  cheeks,  her  head  erect, 
shoulders  stiffened,  a  flash  in  her  eyes — such  a  flash 


SUE  DOES  NOT  SEND  FOR  PETER  311 

as  no  one  had  seen  there  for  a  long  time — "Yes,  I'm 
going — home." 

Zanin  sat  alone,  looking  after  them  as  they  walked 
quietly  out  of  the  restaurant.  He  lighted  a  fresh 
cigarette,  deliberately  blew  out  the  match,  stared 
at  it  as  if  it  had  -been  a  live  thing,  then  flicked  it 
over  his  shoulder  with  a  snap  of  his  thumb. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AT  THE  CORNER  OF  TENTH 

PETER  sat  alone  in  the  corner  room  down- 
stairs. Mechanically  he  turned  the  pages  of 
Le  Sourire — turned  them  forward  and  back,  tried 
to  see  what  lay  -before  his  eyes,  tried  indeed,  to  ap- 
pear as  should  appear  that  well-known  playwright, 
"Eric"  Mann.  "I  must  think  objectively,"  he  told 
himself.  "That's  the  great  thing — to  think  object- 
ively." 

Time  was  passing — minutes,  hours,  years.  He 
was  trying  to  think  out  how  long  it  had  been  since 
the  Worm  went  up-stairs.  "Was  it  one  minute  or 
ten?" 

There  was  a  sudden  new  noise  outside — a  voice. 
He  listened  intently.  It  was  Hy  Lowe's  voice;  ex- 
cited, incoherent,  shouting  imprecations  of  some 
sort.  Somebody  ought  to  take  Hy  home.  On  any 
occasion  short  of  the  present  crisis  he  would  do  it 
himself.  Gradually  the  voice  died  down. 

He  heard  the  side-street  door  open  and  close. 
312 


AT  THE  CORNER  OF  TENTH  313 

Some  one  had  entered  the  barroom.  He  tipped  back 
and  peered  out  there.  He  could  see  part  of  a  bulky 
back,  a  familiarly  bulky  back.  It  moved  over  a 
little.  It  was  the  back  of  Sumner  Smith. 

Peter  got  tip,  turned,  then  stood  irresolute.  It 
was  not,  he  told  himself,  that  he  was  afraid  of  Sum- 
ner Smith,  only  that  the  mere  sight  of  the  man 
stirred  uncomfortable  and  wild  emotions  within 
him. 

The  best  way  to  get  out,  in  'fact  the  only  way  now, 
was  through  the  adjoining  room  to  the  door  under 
the  front  steps.  Certainly  he  couldn't  go  up-stairs. 
There  might  be  trouble  on  the  Avenue  if  the  Worm 
should  see  him  coming  out.  For  a  moment  he  even 
considered  swallowing  down  all  this  outrageous 
emotional  upheaval  within  him  and  staying  there. 
He  had  said  that  Sue  would  send  for  him.  During 
ten  or  twelve  seconds  out  of  every  sixty  he  firmly 
believed  she' would.  It  was  so  in  his  plays — let  the 
heartless  girl,  in  her  heyday,  jilt  a  worthy  lover, 
she  was  sure  in  her  hours  of  trial  to  flee,  chastened, 
to  his  arms. 

But  he  looked  again  at  the  bade  of  Sumner  Smith. 
It  was  a  solid  back.  It  suggested,  like  the  man's 
inscrutable  round  face,  quiet  power.  Peter  de- 
cided on  flight  via  that  front  door. 


314  THE   TRUFFLERS 

He  moved  slowly  across  the  room.  Then  he  heard 
a  voice  that  chilled  his  hot  blood. 

"Mann,"  said  this  voice. 

He  turned.  One  or  two  men  glanced  up  from 
their  papers,  then  went  on  reading. 

Peter  stood  wavering.  Sumner  Smith's  eye  was 
full  on  him  from  the  barroom  door ;  Sumner  Smith's 
head  was  beckoning  him  with  a  jerk.  He  went. 

"What'll  you  have?"  he  asked  hurriedly,  in  the 
barroom. 

"What'll  I  have?"  mimicked  Sumner  Smith  in  a 
voice  of  rumbling  calm.  "You're  good,  Mann.  But 
if  anybody  was  to  buy,  it'd  be  me.  The  joke,  you 
see,  is  on  me.  Only  nobody's  buying  at  the  mo- 
ment. You  send  me  out — an  Evening  Earth 
man ! — to  pull  off  a  murder  for  the  morning  papers. 
Oh,  it's  good!  I  grant  you,  it's  good.  I  do  your 
little  murder ;  the  morning  papers  get  the  story.  Just 
to  make  sure  of  it  you  send  Jimmie  Markham  around 
after  me.  It's  all  right,  Mann.  I've  done  your 
murder.  The  Continental's  getting  the  story  now — 
a  marvel  of  a  story.  There's  a  page  in  it  for  them 
to-morrow.  As  for  you — I  don't  know  what  you 
are.  And  I  don't  care  to  soil  any  of  the  words  I 
know  by  putting  'em  on  you!" 


AT  THE  CORNER  OF  TENTH  315 

Even  Peter  now  caught  the  rumble  beneath  the 
calm  surface  of  that  voice.  And  he  knew  it  was 
perhaps  the  longest  speech  of  Sumner  Smith's  event- 
ful life.  Peter's  stomach,  heart,  lungs  and  spine 
seemed  to  drop  out  of  his  body,  leaving  a  cold 
hollow  frame  that  could  hardly  be  strong  enough  to 
support  his  shoulders  and  head.  But  he  drew  him- 
self up  and  replied  with  some  dignity  in  a  voice  that 
was  huskier  and  higher  than  his  own : 

"I  can't  match  you  in  insults,  Smith.  I  appear  to 
have  a  choice  between  leaving  you  and  striking  you. 
I  shall  leave  you." 

"The  choice  is  yours,"  said  Smith.  "Either  you 
say." 

"I  shall  leave  you,"  repeated  Peter;  and  walked, 
very  erect,  out  to  the  side  street. 

Here,  near  the  corner  of  the  Avenue,  he  found 
Hy  Lowe,  leaning  against  the  building,  weeping, 
while  four  taxi  chauffeurs  and  two  victoria  drivers 
stood  by.  It  occurred  to  Peter  that  it  might  be  best, 
after  all,  to  give  up  brooding  over  his  own  troubles 
and  take  the  boy  home.  He  could  bundle  him  into 
a  taxi.  And  once  at  the  old  apartment  building  in 
the  Square,  John  the  night  man  would  help  carry 
him  up.  It  would  be  rather  decent,  for  that  mat- 


316  THE   TRUFFLERS 

ter,  to  pay  for  the  taxi  just  as  if  it  was  a  matter  of 
course  and  never  mention  it  to  Hy.  Of  course, 
however,  if  Hy  were  to  remember  the  occurrence — 

A  fist  landed  in  Peter's  face — not  a  hard  fist, 
merely  a  limp,  folded-over  hand.  Peter  brushed  it 
aside.  It  was  the  fist  of  Hy  Lowe.  Hy  lurched  at 
him  now,  caught  his  shoulders,  tried  to  shake  him. 
He  was  saying  things  in  a  rapidly  rising  voice. 
After  a  moment  of  ineffectual  wrestling,  Peter  be- 
gan to  catch  what  these  things  were : 

"Call  you'self  frien' — take  bread  outa  man's 
mouth!  Oh,  I  know.  No  good  tryin'  lie  to  me — 
tellin'  me  Sumner  Smith  don'  know  what  he's 
talkin'l  Where's  my  raise?  You  jes'  tell  me — 
where's  my  raise?  Ol'  Walrus  gone — croaked — • 
where's  my  raise  ?" 

Peter  propped  him  against  the  building  and 
walked  swiftly  around  the  corner. 

There  he  stopped ;  dodged  behind  a  tree. 

Sue  and  the  Worm  were  running  down  the  wide 
front  steps.  She  leaped  into  the  first  taxi.  The 
Worm  stood,  one  foot  on  the  step,  hand  on  door, 
and  called.  One  of  Hy's  audience  hurried  around, 
brushing  past  Peter,  receiving  his  instructions  as  he 
cranked  the  engine  and  leaped  to  his  seat.  The  door 
slammed.  They  were  gone. 


AT  THE  CORNER  OF  TENTH  317 

Peter  was  sure  that  something  snapped  in  his 
brain.  It  was  probably  a  lesion,  he  thought.  He 
strode  blindly,  madly,  up  the  Avenue,  crowding  past 
the  other  pedestrians,  bumping  into  one  man  and 
rushing  on  without  a  word. 

Suddenly — this  was  a  little  farther  up  the 
Avenue — Peter  stopped  short,  caught  his  breath, 
struggled  with  emotions  that  even  he  would  have 
thought  mixed.  He  even  turned  and  walked  back  a 
short  way.  For  across  the  street,  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  corner  building,  his  eyes  made  out  the  figure 
of  a  girl;  and  he  knew  that  figure,  knew  the  slight 
droop  of  the  shoulders  and  the  poise  of  the  head. 

She  had  seen  him,  of  course.  Yes,  this  was 
Tenth  Street!  With  swift  presence  of  mind  he 
stooped  and  went  through  the  motion  of  picking  up 
something  from  the  sidewalk.  This  covered  his 
brief  retreat.  He  advanced  now. 

She  hung  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  building. 
Her  dark  pretty  face  was  clouded  with  anger,  her 
breast  rose  and  fell  quickly  with  her  breathing.  She 
would  not  look  at  him. 

He  took  her  arm — her  softly  rounded  arm — in  his 
hand.  She  wrenched  it  away. 

"Oh,  come,  Maria,  dear,"  he  murmured  rather 
weakly.  "I'm  sorry  I  kept  you  waiting." 


318  THE   TRUFFLERS 

She  confronted  him  now.  There  was  passion  in 
her  big  eyes.  Her  voice  was  not  under  control. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  the  truth?"  she  broke  out. 
"You  think  you  can  do  anything  with  me — play 
with  me,  hurt  me." 

"Hush,  Maria!"  He  caught  her  arm  again. 
"Some  one  will  hear  you !" 

"Why  should  I  care?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know — " 

"Child,  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  you  mean!" 

"You  do  know!  You  play  with  me!  You  sent 
for  your  bags.  Why  didn't  you  come  yourself?" 

"Why,  that—" 

"When  you  saw  me  here  you  stopped — you  went 
back—" 

Peter  gulped.  "I  dropped  my  keys,"  he  cried 
eagerly.  "I  was  swinging  them.  I  had  to  go  back 
and  pick  them  up."  And  triumphantly,  with  his 
free  hand,  he  produced  them  from  his  pocket. 

Within  the  grip  of  his  other  hand  he  felt  her  soft 
arm  tremble  a  little.  Her  gaze  drooped. 

"It  isn't  just  to-night — "  he  heard  her  trying  to 
say. 

"Come,  dear,  here's  a  bus!    We'll  ride  up-town." 

She  let  him  lead  her  to  the  curb.     Solicitously  he 


handed  her  up  the  winding  little  stairway  to  a  seat 
on  the  roof. 

There  is  no  one  book  of  Peter's  life.  There  are 
a  great  many  little  books,  some  of  them  apparently 
unconnected  with  any  of  the  others.  Maria  Toni- 
fetti,  as  you  may  gather  from  this  unintelligible  lit- 
tle scene  on  a  street  corner,  had  one  of  those  de- 
tached Peter  books  all  to  herself. 

Up  on  the  roof  of  the  bus,  Peter,  reacting  with 
great  inner  excitement  from  his  experiences  of  the 
last  three  hours,  slipped  an  arm  about  Maria's  shoul- 
ders, bent  tenderly  over  her,  whispered  softly  into 
her  ear.  Before  the  bus  reached  Forty-second 
Street  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  her  nestle 
softly  and  comfortably  against  his  arm,  and  he  knew 
that  once  again  he  had  won  her.  Slowly  within  his 
battered  spirit  the  old  thrill  of  conquest  stirred  and 
flamed  up  into  a  warm  glow.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY 

THE  Worm  sat  on  a  wooden  chair,  an  expres- 
sion of  puzzled  gravity  on  his  usually  whim- 
sical face.  The  room  was  a  small  kitchen.  The  two 
screened  windows  gave  a  view  of  a  suburban  yard, 
bounded  by  an  alley  and  beyond  the  alley  other 
yards;  beyond  these  a  row  of  small  frame  houses. 
There  were  trees;  and  the  scent  of  a  honeysuckle 
vine. 

Sue  Wilde,  her  slim  person  enveloped  in  a  checked 
apron,  knelt  by  the  old-fashioned  coal  range.  The 
lower  door  was  open,  the  ash-pan  drawn  half  out. 
There  were  ashes  on  the  floor  about  her  knees. 

Henry  Bates  absently  drew  out  his  old  caked 
brier  pipe;  filled  and  lighted  it.  Meditatively  he 
studied  the  girl — her  apron,  the  flush  on  her  face, 
the  fascinating  lights  in  her  tousled  hair — telling 
himself  that  the  scene  was  real,  that  the  young  rebel 
soul  he  had  known  in  the  Village  was  this  same  Sue 

320 


FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY    321 

iWttde.  The  scent  of  the  honeysuckle  floated  thickly 
to  his  nostrils.  He  stared  out  at  the  row  of  little 
wooden  houses.  He  slowly  shook  his  head ;  and  his 
teeth  closed  hard  on  the  pipe  stem. 

"Henry,"  she  cried  softly,  throwing  out  her  fine 
hands,  "don't  you  understand.!  I  had  a  conscience 
all  the  time.  That's  what  was  the  matter !" 

"I  think  I  understand  well  enough,  Sue,"  said  he. 
"It's  the" — he  looked  again  about  the  kitchen  and 
out  the  window — "it's  the  setting!  I  hadn't  pic- 
tured you  as  swinging  so  far  to  this  extreme. 
Though,  as  you  Know,  there  in  the  Village,  I  have 
been  rather  conservative  in  my  feelings  about  you." 

"I  know,  Henry."  She  settled  back  on  her  heels. 
He  saw  how  subdued  she  was.  The  tears  were  not 
far  from  her  eyes.  "I've  been  all  wrong." 

"Wrong,  Sue?" 

"Absolutely.  In  all  I  said  and  tried  to  do  in  the 
Village."  He  was  shaking  his  head;  but  she  con- 
tinued :  "I  was  cutting  at  the  roots  of  my  own  life. 
I  disowned  every  spiritual  obligation.  I  put  my  faith 
in  Nietzsche  and  the  Russian  crowd,  in  egotism. 
Henry"' — her  eyes  unmistakably  filled  now ;  her  voice 
grew  unsteady — "once  my  father  came  over  into 
the  Village  after  me.  He  tried  to  get  me  to  come 
home.  I  was  playing  at  the  Crossroads  then." 


322  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"Yes,"  said  he  shortly,  "I  remember  that  time." 
"I  had  on  my  boy  costume.    He  came  straight  to 
the  theater  and  I  had  to  go  out  front  and  talk  with 
him.     We  quarreled — " 

"I  know,"  said  he  quickly,  "I  was  there." 
He  saw  that  she  was  in  the  grip  of  an  emotional 
revulsion  and  wished  he  could  stop  her.     But  he 
couldn't.     Suddenly  she  seemed  like  a  little  girl. 

"Don't  you  see,  Henry!"  She  threw  out  her 
hands.  "Do  you  think  it  would  be  any  good — now 
• — to  tell  me  I'm  not  partly  responsible.  If  I — if  — " 
she  caught  herself,  stiffened  up;  there  was  a  touch 
of  her  old  downrightness  in  the  way  she  came  out 
with,  "Henry,  he  wouldn't  have — killed  himself!" 
Her  voice  was  a  whisper.  "He  wouldn't !" 

The  Worm  smoked  and  smoked.  He  couldn't 
tell  her  that  he  regarded  her  father  as  a  hypocritical 
old  crook,  and  that  her  early  revolt  against  the  home 
within  which  the  man  had  always  wished  to  confine 
her  had,  as  he  saw  it,  grown  out  of  a  sound  instinct. 
You  couldn't  expect  her,  now,  to  get  all  that  into 
any  sort  of  perspective.  Her  revolt  dated  back  to 
her  girlish  struggle  to  get  away  to  school  and  later, 
to  college.  Sue  was  forgetting  now  how  much  of 
this  old  story  she  had  let  him  see  in  their  many 
talks.  Why,  old  Wilde  had  tried  to  change  the 


FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY     323 

course  of  her  college  studies  to  head  her  away  from 
modernism  into  the  safer  channels  of  pietistic  tra- 
dition. The  Worm  couldn't  forgive  him  for  that. 
And  then,  the  man's  dreadful  weekly,  and  his  curi- 
ous gift  of  using  his  great  emotional  power  to  draw 
immense  sums  of  money  from  thousands  of  faith- 
ful readers  in  small  towns  and  along  country  lanes. 
He  hadn't  killed  himself  on  Sue's  account. 

It  was  known,  now,  that  the  man  had  lived  in  an 
awful  fear.  It  was  known  that  he  had  the  acid  right 
at  hand  in  both  office  and  home,  the  acid  he  had 
finally  drunk.  .  .  .  She  was  speaking. 

The  Worm  smoked  on. 

"I  wonder  if  you  really  know  what  happened." 

"What  happened  ?"  he  repeated,  all  at  sea. 

"You  must  have  seen  the  drift  of  it — of  what  I 
didn't  tell  you  at  one  time  or  another."  He  saw 
now  that  she  was  talking  of  her  own  experiences. 
He  had  to  make  a  conscious  struggle  to  bring  his 
mind  up  out  of  those  ugly  depths  and  listen  to  her. 
She  went  on.  "It  has  been  fine,  Henry,  the  way  I 
could  always  talk  to  you.  Our  friendship — " 

She  began  in  another  way.  "It's  the  one  thing 
I  owe  to  Jacob  Zanin.  He  told  me  the  blunt  truth 
— about  myself.  It  did  hurt,  Henry.  But  even  then 
I  knew  it  for  the  truth.  You  know  how 


324  THE   TRUFFLERS 

he  feels  about  marriage  and  the  home" — she  glanced 
up  at  the  bare  kitchen  walls — "all  that" 

He  nodded. 

"Well,  he — Henry,  Ke  wanted  to  have  an  affair 
with  me."  She  said  this  rather  hurriedly  and  low, 
not  at  all  with  the  familiar  frankness  of  the  Vil- 
lage in  discussing  the  old  forbidden  topics.  "He 
knew  I  was  all  confused,  that  I  had  got  into  an 
impasse.  He  made  me  see  that  I'd  been  talking  and 
thinking  a  kind  of  freedom  that  I  hadn't  the  courage 
to  go  in  for,  really — in  living." 

"Courage,  Sue?" 

"Yes,  courage — or  taste — or  something!  Henry, 
you  know  as  well  as  I  that  the  freedom  we  talk  in 
the  Village  leads  straight  to — well,  to  complete  un- 
morality,  to — to  promiscuity,  to  anything." 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  watching  her  and  wondering 
with  a  little  glow  suddenly  warming  his  heart,  at 
her  lack  of  guile.  He  thought  of  a  phrase  he  had 
once  formulated  while  hearing  this  girl  talk — 
"Whom  among  women  the  gods  would  destroy  they 
first  make  honest." 

"When  I  was  put  to  the  test — and  I  was  put  to 
the  test,  Henry ;  I  found  that  I  was  caught  in  my  own 
philosophy,  was  drifting  down  with  it — if  turned 
out  that  I  simply  didn't  believe  the  things  I'd  been 


FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY    325 

saying.  I  even" — she  faltered  here,  but  rushed  on 
— "I  very  nearly  rushed  into  a  crazy  marriage  with 
Peter.  Just  to  save  myself.  Oh,  I  see  it  now !  It 
would  have  been  as  dishonest  a  marriage  as  the 
French-heeledest  little  suburbanite  ever  planned." 

"You're  severe  with  yourself,"  he  said. 

She,  lips  compressed,  shook  her  head. 

"I  suppose,"  he  mused  aloud,  "there's  a  lot  of  us 
radicals  who'd  be  painfully  put  to  it  if  we  were 
suddenly  called  on  to  quit  talking  and  begin  really 
living  it  out.  Lord,  what  would  we  do!"  And 
mentally  he  added :  "Damn  few  of  us  would  make 
the  honest  effort  to  find  ourselves  that  you're  making 
right  now."  Then,  aloud :  "What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes.  "I'm  going  to  take  these 
ashes  down  cellar." 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  he. 

When  the  small  task  was  accomplished,  she  said 
more  gently: 

"Henry,  please  understand !  I  count  on  you.  This 
thing  is  a  tragedy.  I'm  deep  in  it.  I  don't  even 
want  to  escape  it.  I'll  try  not  to  sink  into  those  mor- 
bid thoughts — but  he  was  my  father,  and  he  was 
buried  yesterday.  His  wife,  this  one,  is  not  my 
mother,  but — but  she  was  his  wife.  She  is  crushed, 


326  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Henry.  I  have  never  before  been  close  to  a  human 
being  who  was  shattered  as  she  is  shattered.  There 
are  the  children — two  of  them.  And  no  money." 

"No  money?" 

"Father's  creditors  have  seized  the  paper  and  the 
house  in  Stuyvesant  Square.  Everything  is  tied  up. 
There  is  to  be  an  investigation.  My  Aunt  Matilda 
is  here — this  is  her  house — but  we  can't  ask  her  to 
support  us.  Henry,  here  is  something  you  can  do ! 
Betty  is  staying  at  my  old  rooms.  Try  to  see  her 
to-day.  Could  you  ?" 

He  nodded.     "Surely." 

"Have  her  get  some  one  to  come  in  with  her — 
take  the  place  off  my  hands.  Every  cent  of  the  lit- 
tle I  have  is  needed  here.  She'll  be  staying.  That 
marriage  of  hers  didn't  work.  She  couldn't  keep 
away  from  the  Village,  anyway.  And  please  have 
her  pack  up  my  things  and  send  them  out.  I  only 
brought  a  hand-bag.  Betty  will  pitch  in  and  do  that 
for  me.  She's  got  to.  I  haven't  even  paid  this 
month's  rent  yet.  Have  her  send  everything  except 
my  books — perhaps  she  could  sell  those.  It  would 
help  a  little." 

They  heard  a  step  on  the  uncarpeted  back  stairs. 
A  door  swung  open.  On  the  bottom  step,  framed  in 
tte  shadowed  doorway,  stood  a  short  round-shoul- 


FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY     327 

dered  woman.  Lines  drooped  downward  from  her 
curving  mouth.  Her  colorless  eyes  shifted  ques- 
tioningly  from  the  girl  to  the  man  and  back  to  the 
girl  again.  It  was  an  unimaginative  face,  rather 
grim,  telling  its  own  story  of  fifty-odd  years  of  de- 
votion to  petty  household  and  neighborhood  duties ; 
the  face  of  a  woman  all  of  whose  girlhood  impulses 
had  been  suppressed  until  they  were  converted  into 
perverse  resentments. 

The  Worm,  as  he  rose,  hardly  aware  of  the  act, 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  into  the  coal  hod. 
Then  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  on  those  ashes  and 
on  his  pipe.  He  thrust  the  pipe  into  his  pocket.  And 
glancing  from  the  woman  to  the  girl,  he  momentarily 
held  his  breath  at  the  contrast  and  the  thoughts  it 
raised.  It  was  youth  and  crabbed  age.  The  gulf 
between  them  was  unbridgeable,  of  course;  but  he 
wondered — it  was  a  new  thought — if  age  need  be 
crabbed.  Didn't  the  new  spirit  of  freedom,  after 
all,  have  as  much  to  contribute  to  life,  as  the  puri- 
tan tradition?  Were  the  risks  of  letting  yourself 
go  any  greater,  after  all,  than  the  risks  of  suppres- 
sion ?  Weren't  the  pseudo-Freudians  at  least  partly 
right  ? 

"Aunt  Matilda,"  Sue  was  saying  (on  her  feet 
now) — "this  is  an  old  friend,  Mr.  Bates." 


328  THE    TRUFFLERS 

The  woman  inclined  her  head. 

Henry  Bates,  his  moment  of  speculation  past,  felt 
his  spirit  sinking.  He  said  nothing,  because  he  could 
think  of  nothing  that  could  be  said  to  a  woman  who 
looked  like  that.  She  brought  with  her  the  close  air 
of  the  stricken  chamber  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  By 
merely  opening  the  'door  and  appearing  there  she 
had  thrust  a  powerful  element  of  hostility  into  the 
simple  little  kitchen.  Her  uncompromising  eyes 
drew  Sue  within  the  tragic  atmosphere  of  the  house 
as  effectively  and  definitely  as  it  thrust  himself 
without  it. 

Sue's  next  remark  was  even  more  illuminating 
than  had  been  his  own  curious  haste  to  conceal  his 
pipe. 

"Oh,"  murmured  Sue,  "have  we  disturbed" — she 
hesitated,  fought  with  herself,  came  out  with  it — • 
"mother?" 

"Well,  the  smoke  annoys  her."  Aunt  Matilda 
did  not  add  the  word  "naturally,"  but  the  tone  and 
look  conveyed  it.  "And  she  can  hear  your  voices." 

Henry  Bates  had  to  struggle  with  a  rising  anger. 
There  were  implications  in  that  queerly  hostile  look 
that  reflected  on  Sue  as  on  himself.  But  they  were 
and  remained  unspoken.  ^They  could  not  be  met. 


FIFTY  MINUTES  FROM  BROADWAY     329 

The  only  possible  course  was  to  go ;  and  to  go  with 
the  miserable  feeling  that  he  was  surrendering  Sue 
to  the  enemy. 

He  turned  to  her  now,  speaking  with  quiet  dig- 
nity; little  realizing  that  even  this  dignity  aroused 
resentment  and  suspicion  in  the  unreceptive  mind 
behind  those  eyes  on  the  stairs — that  it  looked  brazen 
coming  from  a  young  man  whose  sandy  hair  strag- 
gled down  over  his  ears  and  close  to  his  suspiciously 
soft  collar,  whose  clothes  were  old  and  wrinkled, 
whose  mild  studious  countenance  exhibited  nothing 
of  the  vigor  and  the  respect  for  conformity  that  are 
expected  of  young  men  in  suburbs  who  must  go  in 
every  morning  on  the  seven-thirty-six  and  come  out 
every  evening  on  the  five-fifty-two,  and  who,  there- 
fore, would  naturally  be  classed  with  such  queer 
folk  as  gipsies  and  actors. 

"If  you  like,  Sue,"  he  said,  "I'll  get  Betty  to 
hurry  so  I  can  bring  a  suit-case  out  to-night." 

She  waited  a  brief  moment  before  answering; 
and  in  that  moment  was  swept  finally  within  Aunt 
Matilda's  lines.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
sudden  rapidity,  "don't  do  that.  To-morrow  will 
do — just  send  them." 

Then  aware  that  she  was  dismissing  him  indef- 


330  THE    TRUFFLERS 

initely,  her  eyes  brimming  again  (for  he  had  been  a 
good  friend),  she  extended  her  hand. 

The  Worm  gripped  it,  bowed  to  the  forbidding 
figure  on  the  stairs  and  left. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A  PAIR  OF  RED  BOOTS 

THE  pleasant  days  of  quiet  reading  and  whim- 
sical reflection  were  over  for  the  Worm,  poor 
devil!  Life  caught  him  up  without  warning — that 
complex  fascinating  life  of  which  he  had  long  been 
a  spectator — and  swept  him  into  swift  deep  currents. 
He  was  to  be  a  mere  spectator  no  longer. 

Washington  Square  glowed  with  June.  The  trees 
had  not  yet  assumed  the  faded,  dispirited  gray-green 
of  midsummer.  The  bus  tops  were  crowded  with 
pleasure  riders,  and  a  crowd  of  them  pressed  about 
the  open-air  terminal  station  held  in  check  by  uni- 
formed guards.  On  the  wide  curves  of  asphalt  hun- 
dreds of  small  Italians  danced  to  the  hurdy-gurdy 
or  played  hopscotch  or  roller-skated.  Perambulators 
lined  the  shady  walks;  nurses,  slim  and  uniformed, 
fat  and  ununi  formed,  lined  the  benches.  Students 
hurried  west,  south  and  north  (for  it  was  after- 
noon— Saturday  afternoon,  as  it  happened).  Beg- 
gars, pedlers,  lovers  in  pairs,  unkempt  tenement 
dwellers,  a  policeman  or  two,  moved  slowly  about, 

331 


332  THE   TRUFFLERS 

but  not  so  slowly  as  they  would  move  a  few  weeks 
later  when  the  heat  of  July  would  have  sapped  the 
vitality  of  every  living  thing  in  town. 

But  the  Worm,  standing  near  the  marble  arch 
where  Fifth  Avenue  splendidly  begins,  felt  not  June 
in  his  heart.  He  walked  on  through  the  Square  to 
the  old  red-brick  building  where  for  three  years 
he  and  Hy  Lowe  and  Peter  Ericson  Mann  had 
dwelt  in  bachelor  comfort.  The  dingy  studio  apart- 
ment on  the  seventh  floor  had  been  his  home.  But 
it  was  a  haunt  of  discord  now. 

He  found  the  usually  effervescent  Hy  pacing  the 
lower  hall  like  a  leopard  in  a  cage.  Hy  wore  an  im- 
maculately pressed  suit  of  creamy  gray  flannel,  new 
red  tie,  red  silk  hosiery  visible  above  the  glistening 
low-cut  tan  shoes,  a  Panama  hat  with  a  fluffy  striped 
band  around  it.  In  his  hand  was  a  thin  bamboo 
stick  which  he  was  swinging  savagely  against  his 
legs.  His  face  worked  with  anger. 

He  pounced  upon  the  Worm. 

"Wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was 
low  but  of  quavering  intensity.  "Before  I  go.  Got 
to  run." 

At  this  point  the  elevator  came  creaking  down.  A 
messenger  boy  stepped  out,  carrying  Hy's  suit-case 
and  light  overcoat. 


A    PAIR    OF    RED    BOOTS  333 

"Excuse  me,"  breathed  Hy,  "one  minute."  He 
whispered  to  the  boy,  pressed  a  folded  dollar  bill 
into  his  hand,  hurried  him  off.  "This  thing  has  be- 
come flatly  impossible — " 

"What  thing?"  The  Worm  was  moodily  survey- 
ing him. 

"Pete.  He's  up  there  now.  I'm  through.  I 
shan't  go  into  those  rooms  again  if  he — look  here! 
I've  found  a  place  for  you  and  me,  over  in  the 
Mews.  Eight  dollars  less  than  this  and  more  light. 
Tell  Pete.  I .  can't  talk  to  him.  My  God,  the 
man's  a — " 

"He's  a  what?"  asked  the  Worm. 

"Well,  you  know  what  he  did!  As  there's  a  God 
in  the  Heavens  he  killed  old  Wilde." 

"Killed  your  aunt!"  observed  the  Worm,  and 
soberly  considered  his  friend.  Hy's  elaborate  get- 
up  suggested  the  ladies,  a  particular  lady.  The 
Worm  looked  him  over  again  from  the  fluff-bound 
Panama  to  the  red  silk  socks.  A  very  particular 
lady!  And  he  was  speaking  with  wandering  eyes 
and  an  unreal  sort  of  emphasis;  as  if  his  anger, 
though  doubtless  genuine  enough,  were  confused 
with  some  other  emotion  regarding  which  he  was 
not  explicit. 

"Where  are  you  going  now — over  to  the  Mews  ?" 


334  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Hy  started  at  the  abrupt  question,  took  the 
Worm's  elbow,  became  suddenly  confidential. 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  exactly.  You  see — every- 
thing's gone  to  smash.  The  creditors  of  the  paper 
won't  keep  me  on.  They'll  put  in  a  country  preacher 
with  a  string  tie,  and  he'll  bring  his  own  staff. 
That's  what  Pete's  done  to  me!  That's  what  he's 
done.  I  wouldn't  go  off  this  way,  right  now,  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  awful  depression  I  feel.  I  didn't 
sleep  a  wink  last  night.  Honest,  not  a  wink!  A 
man's  got  to  have  some  sympathy  in  his  life.  Damn 
it,  in  a  crisis  like  this — " 

"Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  with  even  greater  lu- 
cidity when  you  are  coming  back,"  said  the  Worm 
dryly. 

Hy  gulped,  stared  blankly  at  his  friend,  uttered 
explosively  the  one  word,  "Monday!"  Then  he 
glanced  at  his  watch  and  hurried  out  of  the  building. 

The  Worm  slowly  shook  his  head  and  took  the 
elevator. 

The  long  dim  studio  was  quite  as  usual,  with  its 
soft-toned  walls,  dilapidated  but  comfortable  fur- 
niture, Hy's  piano,  the  decrepit  flat-top  desk,  the 
two  front  windows  from  which  you  could  see  all  of 
the  Square  and  the  mile  of  roofs  beyond  it,  and 
still  beyond,  the  heights  of  New  Jersey.  The  coffee 


A    PAIR    OF    RED    BOOTS  335 

percolator  stood  on  the  bookcase — on  the  empty 
bookcase  where  once  had  been  the  Worm's  library. 
In  this  room  he  had  studied  and  written  the  hun- 
dreds of  futile  book  reviews  that  nobody  ever  heard 
of,  that  had  got  him  precisely  nowhere.  In  this 
room  he  had  lived  in  a  state  of  soul  near  serenity 
until  he  met  Sue  Wilde.  Now  it  brought  heartache. 
Merely  to  push  open  the  door  and  step  within  was  to 
stir  poignantly  haunting  memories  of  a  day  that 
was  sharply  gone.  It  was  like  opening  old  letters. 
The  scent  of  a  thoughtlessly  happy  past  was  faintly 
there. 

Something  else  was  there — a  human  object, 
sprawled  abjectly  in  the  Morris  chair,  garbed  in 
slippers  and  bathrobe,  hair  disheveled,  but  black- 
rimmed  eye-glasses  still  on  his  nose,  the  conspicuous 
black  ribbon  still  hanging  from  them  down  the  long 
face.  It  was  that  well-known  playwright,  Peter 
Ericson  Mann,  author  of  The  Buzzard,  Odd  Change 
and  Anchored;  and,  more  recently,  of  the  scenario 
for  Jacob  Zanin's  Nature  film.  Author,  too,  of  the 
new  satirical  comedy,  The  Truffler,  written  at  Sue 
Wilde  and  booked  for  production  in  September  at 
the  Astoria  Theater. 

The  Worm  had  not  told  Hy  that  he  had  just  seen 
Sue.  Now,  standing  motionless,  the  thousand  mem- 


336  THE   TRUFFLERS 

ory-threads  that  -bound  the  old  rooms  to  his  heart 
clinging  there  like  leafless  ivy,  he  looked  clown  at 
the  white-faced  man  in  the  Morris  chair  and  knew 
that  he  was  even  less  likely  to  mention  the  fact  to 
Peter.  He  thought — "Why,  we're  not  friends! 
That's  what  it  means !" 

Peter's  hollow  eyes  were  on  him. 

"You,  Worm !"  he  said  huskily,  and  tried  to  smile. 
"I'm  rather  ill,  I  think.  It's  shock.  You  know  a 
shock  can  do  it." 

"What  shocked  you?"  asked  Henry  Bates  rather 
shortly,  turning  to  the  window. 

"Hy.  He's  crazy,  I  think.  It's  the  only  possible 
explanation.  He  said  I  was  a" — Peter's  expressive 
voice  dropped,  more  huskily  still,  into  the  tragic 
mood — "a  murderer.  It  was  a  frightful  experience. 
The  boy  has  gone  batty.  It's  his  fear  of  losing  his 
job,  of  course.  But  the  experience  has  had  a  curious 
effect  on  me.  My  heart  is  palpitating."  His  right 
hand  was  feeling  for  the  pulse  in  his  left  wrist. 
"And  I  have  some  difficulty  in  breathing."  Now 
he  pressed  both  hands  to  his  chest. 

The  Worm  stared  out  the  window.  Peter  would 
act  until  his  dying  day ;  even  then.  One  pose  would 
follow  another,  prompted  by  the  unstable  emotions 
of  genius,  guided  only  by  an  egotism  so  strong  that 


A   PAIR   OF   RED    BOOTS  337 

it  would  almost  certainly  weather  every  storm  of 
brain  or  soul.  In  a  very  indirect  way  Pete  had  mur- 
dered the  old  boy.  No  getting  around  that.  An 
odd  sort  of  murder — sending  Sumner  Smith  to  ask 
that  question.  Peter  himself,  away  down  under  his 
egotism,  knew  it.  Hence  the  play  for  sympathy. 

Peter  was  still  talking.  "It  really  came  out  of  a 
clear  sky.  Until  very  lately  I  should  have  said  that 
Hy  and  I  were  friends.  As  you  know,  we  had 
many  points  of  contact.  Last  fall,  when — " 

The  Worm  turned.  "Passing  lightly  over  the 
next  eight  months,"  he  remarked,  "what  do  you 
propose  to  do  now?" 

Peter  shrank  back  a  little.  The  Worm's  manner 
was  hardly  ingratiating.  "Why — "  he  said,  "why, 
I  suppose  I'll  stay  on  here.  You  and  I  have  always 
got  on,  Henry.  We've  been  comfortable  here.  And 
to  tell  the  truth,  I've  been  getting  tired  of  listening 
to  the  history  in  detail  of  Hy's  amours.  He  wants 
to  look  out,  that  fellow.  He's  had  a  few  too  many 
of  'em.  He's  getting  careless.  Now  you  and  I, 
we're  both  sober,  quiet.  We  were  the  backbone  of 
the  Seventh-Story  Men.  We  can  go  on — " 

The  Worm,  though  given  to  dry  and  sometimes 
cryptic  ways,  was  never  rude.  That  is  he  never 
had  been.  But  at  this  point  he  walked  out  of  the 


338  THE   TRUFFLERS 

apartment  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  He  had 
come  in  with  the  intention  of  using  the  telephone. 
Instead  now  he  walked  swiftly  through  the  Square 
and  on  across  Sixth  Avenue,  under  the  elevated  road 
into  Greenwich  Village,  where  the  streets  twist 
curiously,  and  the  hopeless  poor  swarm  in  the  little 
triangular  parks,  and  writers  and  painters  and 
sculptors  and  agitators  and  idea-venders  swarm  in 
the  quaint  tumble-down  old  houses  and  the  less 
quaint  apartment  buildings. 

He  entered  one  of  the  latter,  pressed  one  of  a  row 
of  buttons  under  a  row  of  brass  mouthpieces.  The 
door  clicked.  He  opened  it ;  walked  through  to  the 
rear  door  on  the  right 

This  door  opened  slowly,  disclosing  a  tall  young 
woman,  very  light  in  coloring,  of  a  softly  curving 
outline,  seeming  to  bend  and  sway  even  as  she  stood 
quietly  there ;  charming  to  the  eye  even  in  the  half- 
light,  fresh  of  skin,  slow,  non-committal  in  speech 
and  of  quietly  yielding  ways ;  a  young  woman  with 
large,  almost  beautiful,  inexpressive  eyes.  She 
wore  hat  and  gloves  and  carried  a  light  coat. 

"You  just  caught  me,"  she  said. 

On  the  floor  by  the  wall  was  a  hand-bag.  Henry 
Bates  eyed  this.  "Oh,"  he  murmured,  distrait,  "go- 
ing away!" 


339 

"Why — yes.    You  wanted  me?" 

"Yes.    It's  about  Sue  Wilde." 

She  hesitated ;  then  led  him  into  the  half-furnished 
living-room. 

"Where  is  Sue,  anyway?" 

"When  I  left  her  she  was  trying  to  make  a  fire 
in  a  kitchen  range.  Out  in  Jersey." 

"But  what  on  earth—" 

"Trouble  was  she  didn't  understand  about  the 
damper  in  the  pipe.  I  fixed  that." 

Betty  glanced  covertly  at  her  wrist  watch.  "I 
don't  want  to  appear  unsympathetic,"  she  said,  "but 
I  don't  see  why  she  undertakes  to  shoulder  that  fam- 
ily. It's — it's  quixotic.  It's  not  her  sort  of  thing. 
She's  got  her  own  life  to  live." 

The  Worm,  very  calm  but  a  little  white  about  the 
mouth,  confronted  her.  Betty  moved  restlessly. 

"She  wants  you  to  pack  up  her  things,"  he  said. 
"Sent  me  to  ask." 

Betty  knit  her  brows.  "Oh,"  she  murmured, 
"isn't  that  too  bad.  I  really  haven't  a  minute.  You 
see — it's  a  matter  of  catching  a  train.  I  could  do  it 
Monday.  Or  you  might  call  up  one  of  the  other 
girls.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  But  it's  something  very 
important."  Her  eyes  avoided  his.  Her  color  rose 
a  little.  She  turned  away.  "Of  course,"  she  was 


340  THE    TRUFFLERS 

murmuring,  "I  hate  terribly  to  fail  Sue  at  a  time  like 
this—" 

She  moved  irresolutely  toward  the  little  hall, 
glanced  again  at  her  watch;  and  suddenly  in  con- 
fusion picked  up  her  bag  and  hurried  out. 

He  could  hear  her  light  step  in  the  outer  corridor ; 
then  the  street  door.  All  at  sea,  he  started  to  fol- 
low. At  the  apartment  door  he  paused.  Her  key 
was  in  the  lock;  she  had  not  even  thought  to  take 
it.  He  removed  it,  put  it  in  his  pocket;  then  wan- 
dered back  into  the  living-room  and  stood  over  the 
telephone,  trying  to  think  of  some  one  he  could  call 
in.  But  his  rising  resentment  made  clear  thinking 
difficult.  He  sank  into  the  armchair,  crossed  his 
long  legs,  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head,  stared 
at  the  mantel.  On  it  were  Sue's  books,  in  a  hap- 
hazard row — a  few  Russian  novels  (in  English 
translations),  Havelock  Ellis's  Sex  in  Relation  to 
Society,  Freud  on  Psychanalysis  and  Dreams,  two 
volumes  of  Schnitzler's  plays,  Brieux's  plays  with 
the  Shaw  preface,  a  few  others. 

His  gaze  roved  from  the  books  to  the  bare  walls. 
They  were  bare;  all  Sue's  pictures  were  pinned  up 
on  the  burlap  screen  that  hid  a  corner  of  the 
room — half  a  dozen  feminist  cartoons  from  The 
Masses,  a  futuristic  impression  of  her  own  head 


A   PAIR   OF   RED    BOOTS  341 

by  one  of  the  Village  artists,  two  or  three  strong 
rough  sketches  by  Jacob  Zanin  of  costumes  for  a 
playlet  at  the  Crossroads,  an  English  lithograph  of 
Mrs.  Pankhurst. 

Henry  Bates  slowly,  thoughtfully,  filled  and 
lighted  his  pipe.  His  brows  were  knit.  The  room, 
in  its  unfeminine  bareness  as  well  as  in  its  pictures 
and  books,  breathed  of  the  modern  unsubmissive 
girl.  No  one  had  wasted  a  minute  here  on  "house- 
keeping." Here  had  lived  the  young  woman  who, 
more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  of  the  recent  lights 
of  the  old  Village,  had  typified  revolt.  She  had  be- 
lieved, like  the  Village  about  her,  not  in  patriotism 
but  in  internationalism,  not  in  the  home  but  in  the 
individual,  not  in  duty  and  submission,  but  in  ex- 
periment and  self-expression.  Already,  like  all  the 
older  faiths  of  men,  this  new  religion  had  its  cant,  its 
intolerance  of  opposition,  its  orthodoxy.  His  pipe 
went  out  while  he  sat  there  thinking  about  it;  the 
beginnings  of  the  summer  twilight  softened  the 
harsh  room  and  dimmed  the  outlines  of  back  fences 
and  rear  walls  without  the  not  overclean  windows. 

Finally  he  got  up,  turned  on  the  lights,  took  off 
his  coat,  found  Sue's  trunk  behind  the  burlap  screen 
and  dragged  it  to  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  be- 
gan with  the  coverings  of  the  couch-bed ;  then  went 


342  THE    TRUFFLERS 

into  the  bedroom  and  folded  blankets,  coverlet, 
sheets  and  comforter.  Sue  did  not  own  a  great  va- 
riety of  clothing;  but  what  was  hanging  in  the 
closet  he  brought  out,  folded  and  packed  away.  He 
took  down  the  few  pictures  and  laid  them  flat 
within  the  upper  tray  of  the  trunk.  In  an  hour  liv- 
ing-room, bedroom  and  closet  were  bare.  The  books 
he  piled  by  the  door;  first  guessing  at  the  original 
cost  of  each  and  adding  the  figures  in  his  head. 

Nothing  remained  but  the  bureau  in  the  bedroom. 
He  stood  before  this  a  long  moment  before  he  could 
bring  himself  to  open  the  top  drawer.  To  Peter, 
to  Zanin,  to  Hy  Lowe,  the  matter  would  have  been 
simple.  Years  back  those  deeply  experienced  young 
bachelors  had  become  familiar  with  all  manner  of 
little  feminine  mysteries ;  but  to  Henry  Bates  these 
were  mysteries  still.  The  color  came  hotly  to  his 
mild  countenance ;  his  pulses  beat  faster  and  faster. 
He  recalled  with  painful  vividness,  the  last  occasion 
on  which  Reason,  normally  his  God,  had  deserted 
him.  That  was  the  day,  not  so  long  ago  by  the 
calendar,  he  had  turned  against  all  that  had  been  his 
life — dropped  his  books  in  the  North  River,  donned 
the  costly  new  suit  that  Peter's  tailor  had  made  for 
him  and  set  forth  to  propose  marriage  to  Sue  Wilde. 
And  with  chagrin  that  grew  and  burned  his  face  to 


A    PAIR    OF    RED    BOOTS  343 

a  hotter  red  he  recalled  that  he  had  never  succeeded 
in  making  himself  clear  to  her.  To  this  day  she 
did  not  know  that  his  reflective,  emotionally  unso- 
phisticated heart  had  been  torn  with  love  of  her. 
Why,  blindly  urging  marriage,  he  had  actually  talked 
her  into  that  foolish  engagement  with  Peter !  .  .  . 
What  was  the  quality  that  enabled  men  to  advance 
themselves — in  work,  in  love?  Whatever  it  might 
be,  he  felt  he  had  it  not.  Peter  had  it.  Zanin  had 
it.  Hy  had  it.  Sue  herself!  Each  was  a  person, 
something  of  a  force,  a  positive  quality  in  life.  But 
he,  Henry  Bates,  was  a  negative  thing.  For  years 
he  had  sat  quietly  among  his  books,  content  to  watch 
others  forge  past  him  and  disappear  up  the  narrow 
lanes  of  progress.  Until  now,  at  thirty-two,  he 
found  himself  a  hesitant  unfruitful  man  without  the 
gift  of  success. 

"It  is  a  gift,"  he  said  aloud;  and  then  sat  on  the 
springs  of  the  stripped  bed  and  stared  at  his  inef- 
fectual face  in  the  mirror.  "The  trouble  with  me," 
he  continued,  "is  plain  lack  of  character.  Better 
Hy's  trifling  conquests;  better  Zanin's  driving  in- 
stinct to  get  first;  better  Peter's  hideously  ungov- 
erned  ego;  than — nothing!" 

His  pipe  usually  helped.  He  felt  for  it.  It  was 
not  in  the  right-hand  coat  pocket  where  he  always 


344  THE    TRUFFLERS 

carried  it.  Which  fact  startled  him.  Then  he  found 
it  in  the  left-hand  pocket.  Not  once  in  ten  years  be- 
fore this  bitter  hour  had  he  misplaced  his  pipe.  "My 
God,"  he  muttered,  "haven't  I  even  got  any  habits!" 
He  was  unnerved.  "Like  Pete,"  he  thought,  "but 
without  even  Pete's  excuse." 

He  lighted  his  pipe,  puffed  a  moment,  stood  erect, 
drew  a  few  deep  breaths,  then  drove  himself  at  the 
task  of  packing  the  things  that  were  in  the  bureau. 
And  a  task  it  was !  Nothing  but  the  strong  if  latent 
will  of  the  man  held  him  to  it.  There  were  soft 
white  garments  the  like  of  which  his  hands  had  never 
touched  before.  Reverently,  if  grimly,  he  laid  them 
away  in  the  upper  trays  of  the  trunk.  In  the  bottom 
drawer  were  Sue's  dancing  costumes — Russian  and 
Greek.  Each  one  of  these  brought  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  girl  as  she  had  appeared  at  the  Crossroads; 
each  was  a  stab  at  Henry  Bates'  heart.  At  the  bot- 
tom, in  the  corner,  were  a  pair  of  red  leather  boots, 
very  light,  with  metal  clicks  in  the  heels.  He  took 
them  up,  stood  motionless  holding  them.  His  eyes 
filled.  He  could  see  her  again,  in  that  difficult 
crouching  Russian  step — her  costume  sparkling  with 
color,  her  olive  skin  tinted  rose  with  the  spirited  ex- 
ercise of  it,  her  extraordinary  green  eyes  dancing 
xwith  the  exuberant  life  that  was  in  her.  Then,  as 


A    PAIR    OF    RED    BOOTS  345 

if  by  a  trick  shift  of  scene,  he  saw  her  in  a  bare 
kitchen,  wearing  a  checked  apron,  kneeling  by  a 
stove.  The  tears  brimmed  over.  He  lifted  the  lit- 
tle red  boots,  stared  wildly  at  them,  kissed  them  over 
and  over. 

"My  God!"  he  moaned  softly,  "oh,  my  God!" 
There  was  a  faint  smell  of  burning.  His  pipe  lay 
at  his  feet,  sparks  had  fallen  out  and  were  eating 
their  way  into  the  matting.  He  stepped  on  them; 
then  picked  up  the  pipe  and  resolutely  lighted  it 
again.  The  boots  he  carried  into  the  living-room; 
found  an  old  newspaper  and  wrapped  them  up ;  laid 
the  parcel  by  his  hat  and  coat  in  the  hall. 

He  found  a  strap  in  the  kitchen  closet  and 
strapped  the  trunk.  There  was  a  suit-case  that  he 
had  filled;  he  closed  this  and  laid  it  on  the  trunk. 
Then  he  turned  all  the  lights  off  and  stood  looking 
out  the  open  window.  He  had  had  no  dinner — 
couldn't  conceivably  eat  any.  It  was  evening  now ; 
somewhere  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock,  prob- 
ably. He  didn't  care.  Nothing  mattered,  beyond 
getting  trunk  and  suit-case  off  to  Sue  before  too  late 
— so  that  she  would  surely  have  them  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  sounds  of  evening  in  the  city  floated  to 
his  ears ;  and  he  realized  that  he  had  not  before  been 
hearing  them.  From  an  apartment  across  the  area 


346  THE   TRUFFLERS 

came  the  song  of  a  talking  machine.  Blowsy  women 
leaned  out  of  rear  windows  and  visited.  There  was 
a  faint  tinkle  from  a  mechanical  piano  in  the  corner 
saloon.  He  could  hear  a  street-car  going  by  on 
Tenth  Street. 

Then  another  sound — steps  in  the  corridor;  the 
turning  of  a  knob;  fumbling  at  the  apartment  door. 

He  started  like  a  guilty  man.  In  the  Village,  it 
was  nothing  for  a  man  to  be  in  a  girl's  rooms  or  a 
girl  in  a  man's.  The  group  was  too  well  emanci- 
pated for  that — in  theory,  at  least.  In  fact,  of 
course,  difficulties  often  arose — and  gossip.  Great- 
hearted phrases  were  the  common  tender  of  Village 
talk ;  but  not  all  the  talkers  were  great-hearted.  And 
women  suffered  while  they  smiled.  He  would  have 
preferred  not  to  be  found  there. 

A  key  grated.    The  door  opened. 

With  a  shrinking  at  his  heart,  a  sudden  great  self- 
consciousness,  he  stepped  into  the  hall. 

It  was  Sue — in  her  old  street  suit. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

CHAPTER   ONE 

SUE  stared  at  him,  caught  her  breath,  laughed  a 
little. 

"Why — Henry!  You  startled  me.  Where's 
Betty?" 

The  Worm,  thinking  quickly,  bitterness  in  his 
heart  against  the  selfish  lightness  of  the  Village, 
lied.  "Haven't  seen  her.  Waited  for  her  to  come 
in.  Finally  decided  I'd  better  not  wait  any  longer." 

They  were  in  the  dim  living-room  now.  Sue's 
eyes  took  in  the  strapped  trunk  and  closed  suit-case, 
the  bare  screen  and  couch. 

"But  who — Henry,  you  don't  mean  that  you — " 

He  nodded.  His  pipe  was  out — he  simply 
couldn't  keep  it  going !  Still,  it  gave  him  something 
to  do,  lighting  it  again. 

Sue  stood  watching  him,  studying  his  face  by  the 
light  of  a  match  reflected  from  his  hollowed  hands. 

"Why  so  dark  in  here?"  she  observed.  Then, 
347 


348  THE  TRUFFLERS 

abruptly,  she  came  to  him,  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm, 
broke  out  with  feeling:  "You're  a  dear,  Henry,  to 
go  to  all  this  trouble !  As  it  was,  I  felt  I  was  impos- 
ing on  you.  So  I  ran  in  to  look  after  things  my- 
self." 

"Going  back  to-night?"  he  asked,  talking  around 
his  pipe-stem. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  must."  She  moved  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out  at  the  crowded  familiar  scene.  Sud- 
denly she  turned. 

"Henry — didn't  you  see  Betty?" 

"No,"  he  muttered. 

"Then  how  on  earth  did  you  get  in?  There  are 
only  the  two  keys." 

He  lowered  his  pipe,  stared  at  her  with  open 
mouth.  As  soon  as  his  mind  cleared  a  little  he 
thought — "Good  God!  I  don't  even  lie  well!  I'm 
no  good — for  anything!" 

He  turned  with  a  jerk;  walked  down  the  room: 
walked  back  again;  striding  out  savagely,  turning 
with  a  jerk. 

"What  is  it  you  aren't  telling  me  ?"  she  asked,  fol- 
lowing him  with  troubled  eyes. 

He  .paced  and  paced.  Finally  he  came  to  the 
other  side  of  the  window,  stared  gloomily  out.  Still 
she  watched  him,  waiting. 


CHAPTER    ONE  349 

"Sue,"  he  said — she  had  never  known  this  vehe- 
mence in  him — "you're  wrong." 

"Wrong,  Henry?" 

He  threw  out  his  arm  in  a  strong  gesture ;  his  fist 
was  clenched.  The  other  hand  held  his  pipe  high. 
"Yes,  wrong!  You're  not  a  cook!  You're  not  a 
nurse  maid.  You're  a  girl  with  a  soul — with  spirit 
— fire !  What  are  you  to  that  family  ?  They've  al- 
ways wanted  to  hold  you  down — yes.  But  why?  For 
fear  you'd  start  talk  and  make  them  uncomfortable. 
Oh,  I  know  the  feeling  that  has  gripped  you  now. 
It's  a  big  reaction.  The  tragedy  of  your  father's 
death  has  brought  your  childhood  back — the  old 
tribal  teachings — duty — self-sacrifice !  The  rush  of 
it  has  swept  your  reason  aside.  But  it  will  come 
back.  It's  got  to,  girl!  Even  if  you  have  to  take 
a  long  time  working  through  to  it.  You  and  your 
father  were  not  friends.  Denying  your  own  life 
won't  help  him.  Your  emotions  are  stirred.  I 
know.  But  even  if  they  are,  for  God's  sake  don't 
stop  thinking !  Keep  your  head !  I  tell  you,  you've 
got  to  go  on.  You  can't  live  some  one  else's  life — 
got  to  live  your  own!  It's  all  you've  got  to  live — 
that  life — your  gifts — " 

He  stopped,  at  the  point  of  choking.  Sue  was 
staring  now. 


350  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"Henry,  this  is  strange — sounds  more  like — " 

"Well,  like  whom?" 

"Like  Zanin.    That's  the  way  he  talked  to  me." 

"Perhaps  it's  the  way  a  man  talks  when  he — " 
He  could  not  control  his  voice  and  stopped. 

Sue  kept  very  still;  but  finally,  softly,  rather 
wearily,  she  said :  "I'm  sorry,  Henry !  I've  got  to 
catch  the  ten-fifteen  back." 

He  looked  at  his  watch ;  seeing  nothing.  "You'll 
be  hurrying  then,  Sue." 

"No,  there's  nearly  an  hour."  She  turned  on  the 
light,  moved  into  the  bedroom  and  glanced  into  an 
open  bureau  drawer.  She  drew  out  the  one  below, 
then  thoughtful,  half  smiling,  came  to  the  door. 
"Henry — you  packed  everything?" 

"Everything,  I'm  sure.  Though  you  might  take  a 
last  look  around." 

"But — Henry,  'you  must  have  packed  Betty's 
things,  too." 

The  color  surged  up  over  his  collar.  He  was 
thinking  of  those  soft  garments  and  the  prayers  that 
had  rustled  shyly  upward  from  his  torn  heart  as  he 
felt  them  in  his  hands.  .Wordless,  he  unstrapped 
the  trunk  and  lifted  the  lid.  Sue  repacked  the  trays. 

She  stood  looking  at  the  dancing  clothes,  finger- 
ing them. 


CHAPTER    ONE  351 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "I  shall  never  wear  these 
again." 

"That's  silly,  Sue." 

."No.  It  isn't  silly.  I've  got  a  job  now.  That's 
what  we  need,  all  of  us — a  job.  You  used  to  tell 
me  that  yourself.  You  were  right."  She  was  turn- 
ing the  costumes  over  with  her  slim  hands.  "Did 
you  find  a  pair  of  boots,  Henry  ?  Red  leather  with 
clicks  in  the  heels?  They  should  have  been  with 
these  Russian  things." 

"No,"  he  replied,  with  a  sudden  huskiness,  "I 
didn't  see  them." 

"That's  odd.  They  were  right  with  the  others." 
She  turned  away  to  give  rooms  and  closets  a  final 
scrutiny.  She  brought  a  rough  parcel  in  from  the 
hall,  feeling  it  with  her  hands. 

"This  yours  or  mine,  Henry?"  she  asked.  "I 
could  swear  it  is  those  boots,  but — " 

"It  is  the  boots !"  he  cried,  like  an  angry  man. 

She  stared.  He  waved  them  and  her  roughly 
aside. 

"They  belong  to  you,  not  to  me.  I  lied  to  you ! 
Take  them!  Pack  them!" 

Brows  knit,  puzzled,  her  sensitive  mouth  soften- 
ing painfully,  she  opened  the  parcel  and  looked  at 
the  red  boots — looked  more  closely,  held  them  up  to 


352  THE   TRUFFLERS 

the  light ;  for  she  saw  on  them  small  round  stains  of 
a  paler  red.  Slowly  she  raised  her  eyes  until  they 
met  his. 

His  face  was  twisted  with  pain.  Her  own  gaze 
grew  misty. 

"Pack  them!"  he  cried  in  the  same  angry  way. 
And  she  laid  them  in  the  trunk. 

He  was  desperately  fighting  himself  now.  And 
with  momentary  success.  He  said  abruptly:  "'I'm 
going  to  buy  your  books  myself,  Sue.  So  just  leave 
them  there  for  the  present." 

"You,  Henry!"  She  bit  her  lip.  "You  know  I 
can't  let  you  do  that." 

"You've  got  to  let  me !"  He  stood  right  over  her 
now. 

"But  you — with  your  library — " 

"I  have  no  library."  His  voice  dropped  here — and 
he  stirred,  walking  over  to  the  window ;  stared  out ; 
finally  turned  and  said,  more  quietly :  "Am  I  talking 
like  a  crazy  man,  Sue  ?" 

"Well,  Henry—"  She  tried  to  smile.  "I  have 
always  counted  on  your  steadiness.  Perhaps  I've 
leaned  too  much  on  it." 

He  stood  considering  her  and  himself.  Suddenly 
he  confronted  her  again,  raised  his  long  arms  and 
gripped  her  shoulders. 


CHAPTER   ONE  353 

"And  now,  Sue,"  -he  said,  and  she  could  feel  his 
hands  trembling  with  the  passion  that  she  heard  in 
his  voice,  "I'm  failing  you." 

"Oh,  no,  Henry ;  I  won't  let  you  say  that — " 

"No!  And  you  won't  say  it  yourself.  But  we 
both  know  it  is  true.  I  see  it — the  whole  thing. 
You've  had  your  girlish  fling  here  in  the  Village. 
You  were  honest  and  natural.  And  you  were  mad- 
deningly beautiful.  We  men  have  crowded  about 
you,  disturbed  you,  pressed  you.  Zanin  was  crazy 
about  you.  So  was  Peter.  So  were  a  lot  of  the 
others.  So  was  I." 

He  felt  her  shoulders  stir  under  his  strong  hands. 
Her  eyelids  were  drooping.  But  he  could  not  stop. 
"Everybody  let  it  out  but  me.  Do  you  know  why  I 
didn't?  Because  I  was  a  coward.  I  haven't  made 
love  to  women.  Why?  Because  I  wasn't  attract- 
ive to  them.  And  I  was  timid.  I  stayed  with 
my  books  and  let  life  go  by.  Then  I  found  my- 
self drawn  into  the  circle  about  you.  And  I  lost 
my  head,  too.  I  gave  up  my  books — my  'library/ 
Do  you  know  where  that  'library'  is  now,  Sue? 
At  the  bottom  of  the  North  River.  Every  book !  I 
carried  them  over  there  myself,  in  parcels,  with  a 
weight  in  every  parcel,  and  dropped  'em  off  the  ferry 
boat.  I  tried  to  go  in  for  reality,  for  what  is  called 


354  THE   TRUFFLERS 

life.  I  had  Peter's  tailor  make  me  some  good 
clothes.  I  got  a  newspaper  job.  Held  that  about 
two  weeks.  Tried  to  ask  you  to  marry  me.  Oh, 
yes,  I  did.  But  couldn't  get  away  with  it.  Sue,  I 
never  managed  even  to  ask  you.  I  talked  marriage 
— almost  talked  you  into  it — but  couldn't  manage  to 
talk  about  myself.  Until  now,  just  when  you're 
worn  out  with  work,  with  the  pressures  qf  men, 
with  all  the  desperate  confusions  of  life,  when  your 
soul  is  sick  for  peace — that's  it,  isn't  it  ?" 

Very  slowly  her  head  moved.  "Yes,  Henry, 
that's  it." 

"Why,  then,  I  come  along.  And  I'm  the  last 
straw.  Stirring  up  the  old  turbulence  just  when 
you  need  my  friendship  most.  I'm  doing  it  now — 
this  minute.  I'm  hurting  you.  I'm  making  you  feel 
that  you've  lost  me." 

"Henry" — he  saw  the  effort  it  cost  her  to  speak 
and  winced — "I  can't  bear  to  seem  unsympathetic 
with  you.  But  it's  so  hard.  I  can't  see  any  way — - 
except  this  of  giving  up  self." 

He  let  go  her  shoulders,  swung  away,  and  said : 
"There's  just  one  thing  to  do.  I'll  call  a  taxi."  He 
moved  to  the  telephone,  rummaged  through  the  di- 
rectory, still  talking,  the  flood  of  feeling  that  had 
for  months  been  impounded  within  his  emotionally 


CHAPTER   ONE  355 

inarticulate  self  rushing  now  past  all  barriers, 
sweeping  every  last  protesting  reticence  before  it. 
"I  do  understand,  Sue.  What  you  feel  now  is  as 
deep  an  urge,  almost,  as  this  old  sex  impulse  that 
muddles  life  so  for  all  of  us.  It  is  what  has  driven 
millions  of  women  into  nunneries — to  get  away 
from  life.  Just  as  our  Village  freedom  is  a  protest 
against  unhealthy  suppression  and  rigidity,  so  these 
fevers  of  self-abnegation  are  inevitable  uprushings 
of  protest  against  animalism."  He  had  found  the 
number  now.  He  lifted  the  receiver.  "It's  Puritan 
against  Cavalier — both  right  and  both  wrong !  What 
number —  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  Bryant  six 
thousand.  It's  the  Greeks  against  the  Greatest 
of  Jews — both  right — both  wrong!  Taxi,  please! 
Right  away.  Two-thousand-twenty-six  Tenth 
Street.  All  right.  Good-by.  Beauty  against  duty 
— the  instinct  to  express  against  the  instinct  to  serve 
— 'both  right,  both  wrong!" 

He  confronted  her  again;  caught  up  her  two 
hands  and  gripped  them  within  his  own.  "You've 
had  your  little  fling  at  expression,  Sue.  You  were 
wonderful.  You've  set  flowers  growing  in  our 
hearts,  and  thank  God  for  flowers!  But  life  has 
trapped  you.  You've  swung  over  to  service.  And 
now  you've  got  to  go  through,  work  your  way  out 


356  THE   TRUFFLERS 

of  it.  God  knows  where  you'll  land.  But  if  you've 
counted  on  my  steadiness,  by  God,  you  may  continue 
to  count  on  it !" 

He  pressed  her  hands  to  his  lips;  kissed  her 
knuckles,  her  fingers,  her  palms ;  then  dropped  them. 

Sue  sank  into  the  armchair,  very  white.  The 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  The  Worm  could  not 
look  at  her;  after  a  moment  of  aimless  pacing,  he 
went  out  to  the  front  steps  of  the  building  and, 
bareheaded,  still  coatless,  watched  for  the  taxi.  He 
helped  carry  out  the  big  trunk.  On  the  ride  to  the 
ferry  he  spoke  only  trivialities,  and  Sue  spoke  not  at 
all.  He  did  not  cross  the  river  with  her;  merely, 
there  in  the  ferry  house,  gripped  her  hand — smiling 
after  a  fashion,  limp  of  spirit  (for  the  first  great 
emotional  uprush  of  his  life  seemed  to  have  passed 
like  a  wave)  and  said : 

"Good  night,  Sue.    You'll  let  me  help?" 

"Of  course,  Henry." 

"I'll  sublet  the  place  for  you — to  somebody.  I'll 
take  that  on  myself." 

She  considered  this,  then  soberly  inclined  her 
head.  "This  is  the  key,  Henry.  Give  it  to  Betty. 
And  here's  the  key  to  the  outer  door." 

He  took  the  two  keys;  dropped  them  into  his 
pocket,  where  they  jingled  against  the  other  one. 


CHAPTER   ONE  357 

"It's  a  lonely  road  you're  taking,  Sue.  Good 
luck."  . 

"Oh,  I'll  see  you,  Henry.  It  won't  be  so  exacting 
as  that." 

"But  life  is  going  to  change — for  me  and  for  you. 
The  kaleidoscope  won't  fall  again  into  the  old  com- 
bination. New  crowds,  new  ideas,  are  coming  in — 
new  enthusiasms." 

"The  Village  forgets  pretty  easily,"  she  mur- 
mured, rather  wistful. 

"Yes,  it  forgets.  .  .  .  Sue,  you'll  marry — 
perhaps." 

She  shook  her  head,  lips  compressed.  "No — not 
as  I  feel  now.  .  .  .  Henry,  you're  too  tragic! 
We  needn't  say  good-by  like  this.  Good  heavens, 
I'm  only  going  over  to  Jersey — eighteen  miles! 
That's  all." 

"There  are  statute  miles,"  said  he,  "and  nautical 
miles,  and — another  kind." 

"But  I'll  see  you  again." 

"Oh,  yes!    Of  course,  Sue !" 

"You  can  run  out — some  day  when — " 

Her  voice  faltered.  He  had  been  out  of  place  in 
that  kitchen.  And  she  had  been  put  to  the  neces- 
sity of  explaining  him.  It  was  another  sort  of  thing 
• — hopelessly  another  sort  of  thing. 


358  THE   TRUFFLERS 

He  was  looking  down  at  her,  something  of  the 
old  whimsical  calm  in  his  gaze,  though  sober,  very 
sober. 

"Anyway,"  said  she,  weakly,  groping,  "you  three 
will  go  on  having  your  good  times  over  there  in  the 
Square.  I  find  I  like  to  think  of  you  there.  What 
was  it  they  called  you — the — " 

"The  Seventh-Story  Men,  Sue." 

"Yes,  that  was  it.  You've  been  together  so  long, 
you  three.  I've  always  thought  of  your  place  as 
something  stable  in  the  Village.  Everything  else 
was  changing,  all  the  time." 

"We've  gone  like  the  rest,  Sue." 

"Oh,  no,  Henry!    Not  really?" 

"All  gone!  Hy  goes  one  way,  I  another.  And 
Pete  stays  alone.  No  more  Seventh-Story  Men. 
Good-by,  Sue." 

He  watched  her  through  the  gate ;  waited  to  catch 
her  last  glance,  then  turned  back  into  the  city. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  he  approached  the  old  brick 
building  in  the  Square — his  home. 

In  the  lower  hall  he  hesitated,  .wondering  if  Peter 
was  in.  Finally  he  asked  the  night  man.  No,  Mr. 
Mann  was  not  in.  The  Worm  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief  and  went  up  to  the  rooms. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  pack  his  possessions.    Now 


CHAPTER    ONE  359 

that  there  were  no  books  to  consider  everything 
went  into  one  old  suit-case.  And  with  this  he  set 
forth  into  the  night. 

The  experience  had  a  gloomy  thrill  of  its  own. 
He  had  no  notion  where  he  was  going.  He  hardly 
cared.  The  one  great  thing  was  to  be  going  away — 
away  from  those  rooms,  from  the  trifling,  irritating 
Hy,  from  the  impossible  Peter.  He  walked  over  to 
the  bus  station,  set  down  his  suit-case  on  the  side- 
walk, felt  in  his  pockets  to  see  if  he  had  any  money. 
He  was  always  getting  caught  without  it.  He  had 
given  that  taxi  man  an  even  bill. 

Apparently  he  was  without  it  again.  But  in  one 
pocket  he  found  three  keys  that  jingled  together  in 
his  hand. 

He  caught  his  breath;  threw  back  his  head  and 
stared  straight  up  through  the  trees  at  the  stars. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered— "my  God!" 

He  picked  up  the  suit-case  and  marched  off — a 
tall,  thin,  determined  young  man  with  an  odd  trick 
of  throwing  his  right  leg  out  and  around  as  he 
walked  and  toeing  in  with  the  right  foot — marched 
straight  across  town,  under  the  Sixth  Avenue  Ele- 
vated, on  into  Greenwich  Village;  let  himself  into  a 
rather  dingy  apartment  building  and  then  into  a 
bare  little  three-rooms-and-bath  from  which  not  two 


360  THE   TRUFFLERS 

hours  back  he  had  helped  carry  a  big  trunk,  and 
dropped  into  the  armchair  in  the  living-room.  And 
his  hands  shook  with  excitement  as  he  lighted  his 
pipe. 

"I'm  a  wild  man!"  he  informed  himself — "per- 
fectly wild  1  It's  not  a  bad  thing !" 

He  slept,  the  last  few  hours  of  the  night,  on  a 
bare  mattress.  But  then  a  bachelor  of  a  whimsical 
turn  can  make-shift  now  and  then. 

All  this  on  the  Saturday.  On  the  Monday  morn- 
ing early,  between  eight  and  nine,  there  was  gig- 
gling and  fumbling  at  the  apartment  door,  followed 
by  a  not  over-resolute  knock. 

The  [Worm — pipe  in  mouth,  wearing  his  old 
striped  pajamas  caught  across  the  chest  with  a 
safety-pin, — dropped  his  pen,  snorted  with  impa- 
tience, and  strode,  heedless  of  self  to  the  door. 

There  stood  an  elated,  abashed  couple.  Hy  Lowe, 
still  dapper,  apparently  very  happy ;  Betty,  glancing 
at  him  with  an  expression  near  timidity. 

"Of  all  things!"  she  murmured,  taking  in  the 
somewhat  unconventional  figure  before  her. 

"You,  Worm !"  chuckled  Hy  blithely.  ".Why,  you 
old  devil!" 

Henry  Bates  was  looking  impatiently  from  one  to 
the  other.  "Well,"  said  he— "what  do  you  want?" 


CHAPTER   ONE  361 

Hy  looked  at  Betty;  Betty  looked  at  Hy.  She 
colored  very  prettily ;  he  leaned  against  the  wall  and 
laughed  softly  there  until  his  eyes  filled,  laughed 
himself  weak.  Finally  he  managed  to  observe  to 
the  irate  figure  on  the  sill,  who  held  his  pipe  in  a 
threatening  attitude  and  awaited  an  explanation — 

"My  son,  are  you  aware  that  the  lady  lives  here  ? 
Also  that  you  could  hardly  be  termed  overdressed." 

She  spoke  now,  softly,  with  hesitation — 

"Where  is  Sue,  Mr.  Bates?" 

He  waved  his  pipe.    "Gone — New  Jersey." 

Betty  seemed  to  recollect.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  mur- 
mured. "And  wasn't  there  something — the  other 
day,  when  was  it — " 

She  exchanged  a  helplessly  emotional  glance  with 
the  partly  sobered  Hy. 

" — Saturday  it  must  have  been.  Oh,  of  course, 
you  wanted  me  to  pack  Sue's  things." 

"They're  packed,"  snapped  the  Worm.  "And 
gone." 

"And  what,  pray,  are  you  doing  here?"  This 
from  Hy. 

"Living  here,"  said  the  Worm. 

Again  the  two  sought  each  other's  eyes. 

"Well,  really—"  Hy  began. 

Betty  rested  her  hand  on  his  arm.     "Perhaps, 


362  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Mr.  Bates — you  see,  some  of  my  things  are  here- 
some  things  I  need — " 

Suddenly  the  Worm  remembered.  He  blushed ; 
then  seemed  to  grow  more  angry. 

"You'd  better  come  in  and  get  them,"  said  he. 

"Well— if  I  might—" 

They  came  in.  Betty  repacked  her  bag  in  the  bed- 
room. Once  she  called  to  Hy;  they  whispered; 
then  he  brought  her  his  bag. 

Next  Hy  stood  by  the  window  and  softly  whis- 
tled a  new  rag.  Meanwhile  the  Worm  with  a  touch 
of  self-consciousness,  slipped  on  his  coat.  He  had 
no  bathrobe. 

Hy,  still  whistling,  looked  at  the  litter  of  closely 
written  sheets  on  the  table. 

"What's  this,"  said  he — "writing  your  novel  ?" 

"I  was,"  growled  the  Worm.  He  stared  at  the 
manuscript;  then  at  Hy;  then  at  the  busy,  beautiful, 
embarrassed  young  woman  in  the  bedroom. 

Suddenly  and  savagely,  he  gathered  up  the  papers, 
tore  them  down  and  across,  handful  by  handful  and 
stuffed  them  into  the  fireplace. 

Hy  looked  on  in  amazement. 

Betty  was  ready,  and  called  to  him.  The  Worm, 
set  of  face,  showed  them  out.  He  did  not  know 
that  he  slammed  the  door  behind  them. 


CHAPTER   ONE  363 

On  the  steps  Betty  said — softly,  the  coo  of  a  mat- 
ing bird  in  her  voice — "What  a  funny  man!  I'm 
glad  you're  not  like  that,  dear."  And  slipped  her 
fingers  into  his. 

Hy  returned  her  pressure;  then  withdrew  his 
hand,  glanced  nervously  up  and  down  the  street, 
and  hurried  her  into  the  taxi  that  waited  at  the  curb. 

"One  sure  thing,"  he  muttered,  "we  can't  eat 
breakfast  there!" 

Back  in  the  rooms,  the  Worm — suddenly,  fever- 
ishly, eager — laid  out  a  fresh  -block  of  paper,  dipped 
his  pen  into  the  ink,  and  snatching  up  a  book  for  a 
ruler,  drew  a  heavy  line  across  near  the  top  of  the 
page.  Above  this  line  he  printed  out  carefully — 

THE  BOUNDARY 

A  NOVEL 

BY  HENRY  BATES 

Beneath  the  line  he  wrote,  swiftly,  all  nervous 
energy,  sudden  red  spots  on  his  haggard  cheeks — 
"CHAPTER  ONE." 

"They  stood  at  the  door    .    .    ." 

This,  you  recall,  was  the  beginning  of  the  strong- 
est novel  that  has  come  out  of  Greenwich  Village  in 
many  a  year. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

EARTHY   BROWNS  AND   GREENS 

A  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  on  a  Sat- 
urday in  early  September  Sue  Wilde  opened 
a  letter  from  the  Worm. 

Before  dropping  on  the  stiff  walnut  chair  Sue 
had  closed  the  door;  ruffled  by  the  feeling  that  it 
must  be  closed,  conscious  even  of  guilt.  For  it  was 
a  tenet  of  Aunt  Matilda's,  as  of  Mrs.  Wilde's,  that 
a  woman  should  not  sit  down  before  mid-afternoon, 
and  not  then  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays  or  Satur- 
days. And  here  her  bed  was  not  yet  made. 

"Dear  Sue  (so  the  letter  ran) — Herewith  my 
check  for  the  September  rent.  Sorry  to  be  late.  I 
forgot  it." 

The  letter  sanlc  to  her  lap.  Pictures  rose — mem- 
ories. She  saw  the  half -furnished  little  apartment 
on  Tenth  Street,  in  the  heart  of  the  old  Village 
where  she  had  spent  the  two  busiest,  most  disturbing, 
yet — yes,  happiest  years  of  her  life* 

364 


EARTHY   BROWNS    AND    GREENS     365 

"There's  a  little  news,  some  of  which  I  can't  tell 
you.  Not  until  I  know — which  may  be  by  the  time 
this  reaches  you.  In  that  case,  if  the  news  is  any- 
where near  what  I'm  fool  enough,  every  other  min- 
ute, to  hope,  I  shall  doubtless  be  rushing  post  haste 
to  see  you  and  tell  you  how  it  all  came  about.  I 
may  reach  you  in  person  before  this  letter  does.  At 
present  it  is  a  new  Treasure  Island,  a  wildly  adven- 
turous comedy  of  life,  with  me  for  the  hero — or  the 
villain.  That's  what  I'm  waiting  to  be  told.  But 
it's  rather  miraculous." 

It  was  like  Henry  Bates  to  write  mysteriously. 
He  was  excited;  or  he  wouldn't  be  threatening  to 
come  out  It  had  been  fine  of  him  to  keep  from 
coming  out.  He  hadn't  forced  her  to  ask  it  of  him. 
She  knew  he  wanted  to.  Now,  at  the  thought  that 
he  almost  certainly  was  coming,  her  pulse  quickened. 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  hall,  a  cautious  turning 
of  the  door-knob. 

Flushing,  all  nerves  and  self-consciousness,  she 
leaped  up,  thrust  the  letter  behind  her,  moved  to- 
ward the  bed  that  had  not  yet  been  made. 

The  shyly  smiling  face  of  a  nine-year-old  girl  ap- 
peared. 

"Oh,  is  it  you,  Miriam!"  -breathed  Sue. 

"And  Becky.    //  we  were  to  come  in — " 

"Come  along  and  shut  the  door  after  you." 

The  children  made  for  the  closet  where  hung  cer 


366  THE   TRUFFLERS 

tain  dancing  costumes  that  had  before  this  proved 
to  hold  a  fascination  bordering  on  the  realm  of 
magic.  Sue  resumed  her  letter. 

"Zanin  is  part  of  the  news,  Sue.  He  seems  to 
have  hit  on  prosperity.  There  are  whispers  that  the 
great  Silverstone  has  taken  him  up  in  earnest,  sees 
in  him  the  making  of  a  big  screen  director.  Z. 
himself  told  me  the  other  night  at  the  Parisian  that 
he  is  going  to  put  on  a  film  production  that  will 
make  The  Dawn  of  an  Empire  and  his  own  (and 
your)  Nature  look  like  the  early  efforts  of  an  ama- 
teur. 

'There's  still  another  piece  of  news  I'm  bursting 
with.  I  can't  believe  you  don't  know.  But  you 
haven't  asked — haven't  mentioned  it  in  your  letters. 
And  Zanin  told  me  he  was  wholly  out  of  touch  with 
you.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  you  don't  know  it. 
For  this  bit  of  news  is  about  you.  The  other  that 
I  spoke  of  first,  is  about  me — a  smaller  matter. 
Lord,  but  you  have  buried  yourself,  Sue !  You  cer- 
tainly went  the  whole  thing. 

"Zanin,  by  the  way,  and  that  Belgian  girl — Helene 
something  or  other;  you  know,  works  in  pastels, 
those  zippy  little  character  portraits,  and  dancing 
girls  (didn't  she  do  you,  once?) — well,  they're  in- 
separable. It  bothers  me  a  little,  seeing  them  al- 
ways together  at  the  Muscovy  and  the  Parisian  and 
Jim's.  After  all  the  stirring  things  you  and  he  did 
together.  She  has  spruced  him  up  a  lot,  too.  She's 
dressing  him  in  color  schemes — nice  earthy  browns 
and  greens.  Yes,  J.  Z.  dresses  amazingly  well  now. 
He  has  picked  up  a  little  money  in  these  new  busi- 
ness conections  of  his.  But  I  resent  the  look  of  it — 


as  if  he  had  forgotten  you.  Though  if  he  hadn't  I 
should  -be  crudely,  horribly  jealous. 

"If  I  do  come  out  I'll  do  my  best  to  look  respecta- 
ble. Tell  you  what — I'll  put  on  the  good  suit  I  had 
made  especially  to  propose  to  you  in.  Remember? 
The  time  I  lost  my  nerve  and  didn't  say  the  words. 
Haven't  worn  it  since,  Sue.  And  the  hat — shoes — 
cane.  I'll  wear  'em  all!  No  one  could  be  more 
chastely  'suburbaniacal'  than  Henry  Bates  will  ap- 
pear on  this  significant  occasion.  Even  the  forbid- 
ding aunt  will  feel  a  dawning  respect  for  the  erst- 
while Worm — who  was  not  a  Worm,  after  all,  but 
a  chrysalis,  now  shortly  to  emerge  a  glittering,  per- 
fect creature. 

"Think  not  unkindly  of  your  abandoned  Villager, 

"HENRY  B." 

At  the  ending  she  chuckled  aloud.  The  letter 
had  carried  her  far  from  the  plain  room  in  a  rather 
severe  little  house  which  in  its  turn  conformed 
scrupulously  in  appearance  to  the  uniformity  that 
marked  the  double  row  of  houses  on  this  suburban 
street.  They  were  all  eyes,  those  houses. 

She  tried  to  reconstruct  a  mental  picture  of  that 
remarkable  costume  of  the  Worm's.  But  it  was 
difficult  to  remember ;  she  had  seen  it  only  the  once, 
months  ago,  back  in  the  spring.  Would  he  look 
overdressed?  That  would  be  worse  than  if  he 
were  to  wear  the  old  bagging  gray  suit,  soft  collar 
and  flowing  tie — and  the  old  felt  hat.  For  the 


368  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Street  might  think  him  one  of  her  mysteriously  the- 
atrical acquaintances  from  the  wicked  city,  in  which 
event  a  new  impetus  would  be  given  to  the  whisper- 
ing that  always  ran  subtly  back  and  forth  between 
the  houses  that  were  all  eyes. 

There  was  other  chuckling  in  the  room.  The 
two  children  stood  before  her — Miriam,  the  elder, 
a  big-eyed  girl  with  a  fluff  of  chestnut  hair  caught 
at  the  neck  with  a  bow ;  Becky,  small  for  her  seven 
years,  with  tiny  hands  and  feet  and  a  demure  mouth. 
Miriam  had  about  head  and  shoulders  the  Spanish 
scarf  that  Sue  had  worn  in  Zanin's  Carmen  ballet 
at  the  Crossroads ;  Becky  had  thrust  her  feet  into 
the  red  leather  boots  of  Sue's  Russian  costume. 
When  they  found  their  half-sister's  eye  upon  them 
the  two  giggled  irresistibly-. 

Sue  felt  a  warm  impulse  to  snatch  them  both  up 
in  her  arms.  But  she  sobered.  This  was  old  ground. 
Mrs.  Wilde,  as  the  wife  and  widow  of  an  evan- 
gelical minister,  felt  strongly  against  dancing.  Sue 
had  promised  to  keep  silent  regarding  this  vital 
side  of  her  own  life. 

Becky  shuffled  humorously  to  Sue's  knee.  Miriam 
came  to  her  side,  leaned  against  her  shoulder,  and 
gently,  admiringly  stroked  her  thick  short  hair,  now 
grown  to  an  unruly  length  but  still  short  enough  to 


EARTHY    BROWNS    AND    GREENS     369 

disclose  the  fine  outline  of  Sue's  boyish  yet  girlisfi 
head. 

"Tell  us  about  the  time  you  were  a  movie  actress." 
This  from  Miriam. 

Sue,  dispirited,  shook  her  head.  "You  must  take 
off  those  things,  children./  Put  them  back  in  the 
closet.  Your  mother  wouldn't  like  it  if  she  saw 
you." 

Instead  of  obeying,  Miriam  leaned  close  to  her 
ear  and  whispered :  "I've  seen  movies.  Yesterday 
with  the  girls — after  school.  There  was  a  wild  west 
one,  Clarice  of  the  Canyon,  and  a  comedy  where 
he  falls  through  the  ceiling  and  all  the  plaster  comes 
down  on  the  bed  and  then  the  bed  goes  through 
another  ceiling  and  all.  It  was  awfully  funny." 

Sue  mentally  cast  about  her  for  guidance  in  the 
part  she  had  promised  to  play.  She  deliberately 
frowned.  "Does  your  mother  know  about  it, 
Miriam?" 

The  girl,  bright-eyed,  shook  her  head. 

"Then  it  was  wrong." 

Miriam  still  watched  her,  finally  saying :  "Do  you 
know  why  I  told  you?" 

Sue,  feeling  rather  helpless,  shook  her  head. 

"Because  I  knew  you  wouldn't  tell  on  me." 

Sue  pursed  her  lips. 


370  THE    TRUFFLERS 

She  heard  a  voice  from  the  stair  landing,  Aunt 
Matilda's  voice. 

"Sue!"  it  called — "Sue!    Some  one  to  see  you!" 

The  Worm,  surely!  She  sprang  up,  smoothed 
her  shirt-waist  before  the  mirror,  tried  to  smooth 
her  unmanageable  hair.  Her  color  was  rising.  She 
waited  a  moment  to  control  this. 

''Sue!    Comedown!" 

She  passed  her  aunt  on  the  stairs  and  was  de- 
tained by  a  worn  hand. 

"It's  a  man,"  whispered  the  older  woman — "one 
of  those  city  friends  of  yours,  I  take  it.  Looks  like 
a  Jew.  Goodness  knows  what  people  will  think! 
As  if  they  didn't  have  enough  to  talk  about  already, 
without — this !" 

Sue  shook  off  her  hand  and  ran  down  the  stairs, 
oblivious  now  to  her  color  as  to  the  angry  flash  in 
her  striking  green  eyes.  It  was  Zanin,  of  course — 
of  all  men !  What  if  he  had  heard !  In  Greenwich 
Village  there  was  none  of  the  old  vulgar  race  preju- 
dice. Zanin  was  in  certain  respects  the  ablest  man 
she  had  ever  known.  But  there  was  no  possibility 
that  he  could  be  understood,  even  tolerated,  in  this 
house  on  the  Street. 

She  found  him  on  the  front  porch  where  Aunt 
Matilda  had  left  him.  And  for  an  instant,  before 


EARTHY    BROWNS    AND    GREENS     371 

extending  her  hand,  she  stared.  For  there  stood  the 
new  Zanin — perceptibly  fuller  in  face  and  figure, 
less  wildly  eager  of  eye,  clad  in  the  earthy  brown 
suit  that  had  so  impressed  the  Worm,  with  a  soft 
gray-green  shirt  that  might  have  been  flannel  or 
silk  or  a  mixture  of  the  two,  and  a  large  bow  tie 
and  soft  hat  of  a  harmonious  green-brown. 

He  smiled  easily,  thoughtfully  down  at  her  as  he 
took  her  hand.  Then  she  felt  him,  more  sober,  more 
critical,  studying  her  appearance. 

"Well,  Sue,"  he  observed — this  was  indeed  a 
calm,  successful-appearing  Zanin — "you're  not  look- 
ing so  fit  as  you  might." 

She  could  say  nothing  to  this. 

"Dancing  any?" 

"No.  None."  She  was  wondering  what  to  do 
with  him.  The  choice  appeared  to  lie  between  the 
stuffy  parlor  and  this  front  porch.  Within,  the 
household  would  hear  every  word ;  out  here  the  eyes 
of  the  Street  would  watch  unrelentingly.  With  an 
impassive  face  and  a  little  shrug,  she  remarked,  in- 
dicating a  stiff  porch  chair — 

"Sit  down,  Jacob." 

"I'll  take  this,"  said  he,  dropping  down  on  the 
top  step  in  the  most  conspicuous  spot  of  all.  And 
he  smiled  at  her. 


372  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"You  can't  guess  what  brings  me,  Sue.  First,  I 
want  you  to  run  in  town  this  evening." 

She  shook  her  head,  slowly. 

"You'd  better.  It's  an  unusual  event.  It 
wouldn't  do  to  miss  it." 

Her  eyes  wandered  toward  the  hall  behind  the 
screen  door,  then  off  to  the  row  of  wooden  houses 
across  the  street. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  she,  "it's  going  to  be  missed, 
Jacob." 

He  studied  her.  "I'm  debating  with  myself 
whether  to  tell  you  about  it,  Sue.  Though  it's  a 
wonder  you  don't  know.  Haven't  you  followed  the 
papers?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  wondering,  though,"  she  observed:  "from 
the  way  you  are  talking,  and  from  something  Henry 
Bates  said  in  a  letter  that  came  to-day — if  it  isn't 
the  Nature  film." 

"That's  it,"  said  he.  "First  performance  to- 
night. Really  don't  you  know?" 

"Not  a  thing,  Jacob." 

"Why,  our  old  friend  Silverstone  is  in  on  it  He 
bought  out  the  Interstellar  interest.  We're  featur- 
ing it.  At  a  two-dollar  house,  Sue — think  of  that! 
The  Dawn  of  an  Empire  is  nowhere.  Unless  it 


EARTHY    BROWNS   AND    GREENS     373 

falls  flat — which  it  won't ! — there'll  be  a  bit  of  money 
in  it  for  all  of  us.  What  do  you  say  now,  eh !" 

"Money?"  mused  Sue,  incredulous. 

"Regular  money — even  for  the  small  interest  you 
and  Peter  and  I  hold.  But  that's  only  the  beginning. 
Listen  here  now,  Sue!  A  little  time  has  gone  by. 
You've  hidden  yourself  out  here — let  your  spirit 
sag — so  I  suppose  you  may  find  some  difficulty  in 
grasping  this.  But  the  Nature  film  is  you,  child. 
You're  half  famous  already,  thanks  to  the  way 
we're  letting  loose  on  publicity.  You're  going  to  be 
a  sensation — a  knock-out — once  the  blessed  public 
sees  that  film.  Remember  this :  just  because  you  de- 
cided to  be  another  sort  of  person  you  haven't  be- 
come that  other  person.  Not  for  a  minute!  The 
big  world  is  tearing  right  along  at  the  old  speed  and 
you  with  it.  With  it?  No — ahead  of  it!  That's 
what  our  old  Nature,  that  you  worked  so  hard  on, 
is  doing  for  you  right  now.  Can  you  grasp  that  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  she  listlessly,  "I  grasp  it  all  right 
But  you're  wrong  in  saying  it  is  me.  I  am  another 
person.  Jacob — I  couldn't  go  to  see  that  film." 

"Couldn't  see  it?" 

"No."    Her  Hps  were  compressed. 

"But,  Sue — that's  outrageous !    It's  fanatical !" 

"Maybe  it  is,    I  can't  help  it," 


374  THE   TRUFFLERS 

"You  mean  the  frankness — the  costuming — " 

She  pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  "And  peo- 
ple from  here  will  be  slipping  in  to  see  it — sneaking 
in  when  they  think  their  neighbors  won't  see  them — 
and  seeing  me  on  exhibition  there!  And  they  will 
whisper.  Qh,  the  vulgarity  of  it!  .  .  .  Jacob, 
don't  talk  about  it.  I  can't !  Please !" 

He  studied  her,  through  narrowed  eyes.  "The 
poor  kid  is  going  through  it!"  he  thought.  "I  had 
no  idea!"  Deliberately,  with  the  coldness,  the  de- 
tachment, of  his  race,  he  considered  the  problem. 
At  length  he  said : 

"I'll  tell  you  my  main  errand,  Sue.  I've  got  an 
enormous  new  production  on.  It's  in  my  hands,  too, 
as  director.  Silverstone  gives  me  carte  blanche — 
that's  his  way.  Big  man.  Now  I've  got  an  eye  in 
my  head.  I've  seen  our  Nature  run  off.  And  I 
happen  to  know  that  the  big  movie  star  of  to-mor- 
row, the  sensation  of  them  all,  is  Miss  Sue  Wilde. 
You  don't  realize  that,  of  course.  All  right!  Don't 
try  to.  But  do  try  to  get  this.  I  want  you  for  my 
new  production.  And  I  can  offer  you  more  money 
than  you  ever  saw  in  all  your  life.  Not  two  thou- 
sand a  week,  like  Mabel  Wakeford,  but  a  lot.  And 
still  you'll  be  cheaper  to  my  company  than  women 
not  half  so  good  who  have  built  up  a  market  value 


EARTHY    BROWNS    AND    GREENS      375 

in  the  film  business.  It  will  be  a  bargain  for  us.  I 
brought  out  a  contract  ready  for  you  to  sign.  Salary 
begins  to-morrow  if  you  say  the  word.  Would  you 
like  to  read  it  over?" 

Her  hands  were  still  over  her  eyes.  She  shook 
her  head. 

Instead  of  pressing  his  business  he  went  on  quietly 
studying  her.  He  studied  the  house,  too;  and  the 
street.  After  a  time  he  consulted  a  time-table  and 
his  watch. 

"Sue,"  he  said  then,  "I'm  disappointed." 

"I'm  sorry,  Jacob."  She  looked  up  now  and 
threw  out  her  hands.  "But  you  couldn't  understand. 
I  couldn't  look  at  that  film,  at  myself  doing  those 
things.  It's  a  thing  that's — well,  Jacob,  it  is  repel- 
lent to  me  now.  It's  a  thing  I  wish  I  hadn't  done. 
I  thought  I  believed  it — your  theory  of  freedom, 
naturalness,  all  that.  I  don't  believe  it.  But  all  the 
same  I'm  on  record  there.  The  most  conspicuous 
girl  in  the  United  States — from  what  you  say — ' 

"Easily  that,  Sue.    By  to-morrow." 

" — picturing  a  philosophy  I  don't  believe  in.  I've 
been  daring  almost  to  forget  it.  Now  you're  bring- 
ing it  home  to  me.  It  is  branded  on  me  now.  God 
knows  what  it  is  going  to  mean!  Of  course  it  will 
follow  me  into  my  home  here.  And  you  know  what 


376  THE    TRUFFLERS 

people  will  think  and  say — these  people" — she  indi- 
cated the  orderly  street  with  a  sweep  of  a  fine  arm 
and  hand — "they'll  think  and  talk  of  me  as  a  girl 
who  has  done  what  no  decent  girl  can  do  and  stay 
decent — " 

She  stopped,  choking.  He  was  still  coolly  observ- 
ing her. 

"Yes,"  he  said  again,  "I'm  disappointed.  I'm 
afraid  it's  just  as  well  for  you  to  give  up.  You've 
lost  something,  Sue." 

He  rose.  And  she  let  him  go  in  silence;  stood 
looking  after  him  until  he  disappeared  around  the 
corner.  Then  she  went  up  to  her  room. 

The  children  were  still  there,  serenely  happy  in 
unheard-of  mischief.  They  had  all  her  dancing 
clothes  spread  out  on  the  bed. 

She  closed  the  door.  The  girls  giggled  nervously ; 
she  hardly  saw  them.  She  lifted  up  the  Russian  cos- 
tume and  fingered  the  bright-colored  silk.  Dreams 
came  to  her  mind's  eye.  She  looked  at  the  little 
boots  of  red  leather. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured. 

"Please  dance  for  us,"  begged  Miriam  shyly,  at 
her  side.  She  hardly  heard. 

She  moved  to  the  side  of  the  room,  then  leaped 
out  in  that  bounding,  crouching  Russian  step.  She 


EARTHY    BROWNS    AND    GREENS      377 

was  stiff,  awkward.  She  stepped  back  and  tried  it 
again. 

The  children  laughed  in  sheer  excitement  and 
clapped  their  hands.  Becky  tried  to  imitate  the  step, 
fell  over  and  rolled,  convulsed  with  laughter,  on  the 
floor. 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Wilde  stood  on  the 
threshold.  She  was  a  tall  thin  woman,  all  in  black, 
with  a  heavy  humorless  mouth,  pallid  skin,  flat 
pouches  under  her  eyes. 

"Miriam!  Becky!"  she  cried.  "Come  here  in- 
stantly !" 

Becky  got  up.  The  two  children,  crestfallen,  be- 
tween sulkiness  and  a  measure  of  fear,  moved  slowly 
toward  the  door.  The  mother  stood  aside,  ushered 
them  out,  then  confronted  the  younger  woman. 
There  was  a  tired  sort  of  anger  in  her  eyes.  The 
almost  impenetrable  egotism  of  her  widowhood  had 
been  touched  and  stirred  by  the  merry  little  scene. 

"You  hold  your  promises  lightly,"  she  said. 

Sue  bit  her  lip,  threw  out  her  hands.  "It  isn't 
that—" 

"Then  what  is  it?"  Mrs.  Wilde  moved  into  the 
room  and  closed  the  door.  "I  don't  quite  see  what 
we  are  to  do,  Sue.  I  can't  have  this  sort  of  tempta- 
tion put  before  them  right  here  in  their  home.  You 


378  THE    TRUFFLERS 

know  what  I  have  taught  them  and  what  I  expect 
of  them.  You  know  I  wish  to  be  kind  to  you,  but 
this  isn't  fair.  He — he  .  .  ."  She  carried  a  hand- 
kerchief, heavily  bordered  with  black.  This  she 
pressed  to  her  eyes. 

A  hot  temper  blazed  in  Sue.  She  struggled  with 
it.  Sharp  words  rushed  to  her  tongue.  She  drove 
them  back. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  she  must  be  considerate; 
the  woman's  life  had  been  torn  from  its  roots,  what 
mind  she  had  was  of  course  overwhelmed.  Sue 
atood  there,  her  hands  clenched  at  her  sides,  groping 
desperately  for  some  point  of  mental  contact  with 
the  woman  who  had  married  her  father — forgetting 
that  there  had  never  been  a  point  of  mental  contact. 
Suddenly  she  recalled  a  few  hot  phrases  of  the 
Worm's,  spoken  in  regard  to  this  very  matter  of  her 
attempt  to  confine  her  life  within  this  gloomy  home 
— "It's  Puritan  against  Cavalier — both  right,  both 
wrong!  It's  the  Greeks  against  the  Greatest  of  Jews 
— both  right,  both  wrong!  Beauty  against  duty, 
the  instinct  to  express  against  the  instinct  to  serve 
— both  right,  both  wrong!"  .  .  .  Was  Henry 
Bates  right?  Was  the  gulf  between  her  natural  self 
and  this  home  unbridgeable  ?  Motionless,  tense,  she 
tried,  all  in  an  instant,  to  think  this  through — and 


EARTHY   BROWNS   AND    GREENS     379 

failed.  A  wave  of  emotion  overwhelmed  her,  an 
uprushing  of  egotism  as  blind  as  the  egotism  of  the 
woman  in  black  who  stood  stiffly  against  the  closed 
door.  It  was  a  clash — not  of  wills,  for  Sue's  will 
was  to  serve — but  of  natures. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ONE   DOES    FORGET   ABOUT    HAPPINESS 

SUE  felt  that  the  woman  was  about  to  speak, 
and  suddenly  she  knew  that  she  could  not  lis- 
ten. Fighting  down  the  rather  terrifying  force  of 
her  emotions,  fighting  tears  even,  she  rushed  to  the 
door,  mutely  brushed  Mrs.  Wilde  aside  and  ran 
down  the  stairs.  Sue  let  herself  out  on  the  front 
porch,  closed  the  screen  door  and  leaned  back  against 
it,  clinging  to  the  knob,  breathless,  unstrung.  The 
eyes  of  the  Street  would  be  on  her,  of  course.  She 
thought  of  this  and  dropped  into  one  of  the  porch 
chairs. 

A  man  turned  the  corner — a  tall,  rather  young 
man  who  wore  a  shapeless  suit  of  gray,  a  limp  col- 
lar, a  flowing  bow  tie,  a  soft  hat;  and  who  had  a 
trick  of  throwing  his  leg  out  and  around  as  he 
walked  and  toeing  in  with  the  right  foot. 

He  turned  in,  grinning  cheerfully  and  waving  a 
380 


ONE   DOES    FORGET  381 

lean  hand.  He  mounted  the  steps.  Sue  sat  erect, 
gripping  the  arms  of  her  chair,  eyes  bright,  and 
laughed  nervously. 

"Henry,"  she  cried,  "you're  hopeless!  Where's 
the  new  suit?  You're  not  a  bit  respectable." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  porch  railing  and  gazed 
ruefully  downward. 

"Sue,  I'm  sorry.  Plum  forgot.  And  I  swore  I'd 
never  disgrace  you  again.  I  am  hopeless.  You're 
right."  Then  he  laughed — irresponsibly,  happily, 
like  a  boy. 

She  stared  at  him.    "What  is  it,  Henry?" 

"Everything,  child!  You  see  before  you  the  man 
who  has  just  conquered  the  world.  All  of  it.  And 
no  worlds  left.  Mr.  Alexander  H.  Bates." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  thinking  swiftly  back — "your 
novel!" 

"Right.    My  novel." 

"But  it  isn't  finished,  Henry." 

"Not  quite  half  done." 

"Then,  how  can — " 

He  raised  a  long  hand  and  rose.  He  gazed  down 
benignly  at  her.  "The  greatest  publisher  in  these 
U.  S.  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  read  the 
first  fourteen  chapters.  A  whisper  blew  to  me  yes- 
terday of  the  way  things  were  going — before  I 


382  THE   TRUFFLERS 

wrote  you.  But  the  word  this  morning  was  not  a 
whisper,  Susan.  It  was  an  ear-splitting  yell.  Mister 
Greatest  Publisher  personally  sent  for  me.  Told  me 
he  had  been  looking  for  me — exactly  me! — these 
twenty-eight  years.  And  here  I  am.  Money  now 
if  I  need  it.  And  do  I  need  it?  God,  do  I  need  it! 
And  fame  later — when  I  get  the  book  done.  Now, 
child,  tell  me  how  glad  you  are.  At  once." 

He  walked  the  porch;  came  back  and  stood  be- 
fore her ;  grinned  and  grinned. 

She  could  not  find  words.  Soberly  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed him.  Her  set  mouth  softened.  Her  tight- 
ened muscles  relaxed  until  she  was  leaning  back 
limp  in  the  chair. 

"Isn't  it  the  devil,  Sue !"  said  he.  "The  one  thing 
my  heart  was  set  on  was  to  wear  that  good  suit. 
Sue,  I  was  going  to  put  it  all  over  this  suburb  of 
yours — just  smear  'em!  And  look — I  have  to  go 
and  forget.  Nothing  comes  out  to  see  you  but  the 
same  disgraceful  old  gipsy.  How  could  I?" 

Sue  leaned  forward.  "Henry,  I'm  glad.  I  love 
this  old  suit.  But  there's  a  button  coming  loose — 
there,  on  your  coat." 

"I  know,  Sue.  I  sewed  at  it,  but  it  doesn't  hold. 
I'm  meaning  to  stop  at  a  tailor's,  next  time  I'm  over 
toward  Sixth  Avenue." 


ONE   DOES    FORGET  383 

She  was  studying  his  face  now.  "You're  happy, 
Henry,"  she  said. 

"Well — in  a  sense!    In  a  sense!" 

"It  is  a  good  thing  you  came.  I  was  forgetting 
about  happiness." 

"I  know.  One  does."  He  consulted  his  watch. 
"It's  five-twenty-two  now,  Sue.  And  we're  catch- 
ing the  five-thirty-eight  back  to  town." 

She  did  not  speak.  But  her  eyes  met  his,  squarely ; 
held  to  them.  It  was  a  forthright  eye-to-eye  gaze, 
of  the  sort  that  rarely  occurs,  even  between  friends, 
and  that  is  not  soon  forgotten.  Sue  had  been  white, 
sitting  there,  when  he  came  and  after.  Now  her 
color  returned. 

He  bent  over  and  took  her  elbow.  The  touch  of 
his  hand  was  a  luxury.  Her  lids  drooped ;  her  color 
rose  and  rose.  She  let  him  almost  lift  her  from  the 
chair.  Then  she  went  in  for  her  hat  and  coat ;  still 
silent.  They  caught  the  five-thirty-eight. 

"What  are  we  going  in  for?"  she  asked,  listless 
again,  when  they  had  found  a  seat  in  the  train. 

"Oh,  come !  You  know !  To  see  the  almost  fa- 
mous Sue  Wilde  of  Greenwich  Village — " 

"Not  of  the  Village  now,  Henry !" 

" — in  the  film  sensation  of  the  decade,  Nature, 
suggested  and  directed  by  Jacob  Zanin,  written  by 


384  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Eric  Mann,  presented  by  the  Nature  Film  Produc- 
ing Company,  Adolph  Silverstone,  President.  You 
see,  I've  -been  getting  you  up,  Sue." 

She  was  staring  out  the  window  gloomily. 

"I  swore  I  wouldn't  go,  Henry." 

"But  that  would  be  a  shame." 

"I  know — of  course.  But — Henry,  you  don't  un- 
derstand. Nobody  understands !  I'm  not  sure  I  can 
stand  it  to  sit  there  and  see  myself  doing  those 
things — and  have  to  talk  with  people  I  know, 
and—" 

"I  think  I  could  smuggle  you  in,"  said  he, 
thoughtful.  "This  isn't  a  little  movie  house,  you 
know.  It's  a  regular  theater.  There  ought  to  be  a 
separate  gallery  entrance.  That  would  make  it 
easy." 

She  changed  the  subject.  "Where  shall  we  eat, 
Henry?" 

"The  Parisian?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "Let's  go  to  Jim's." 

To  Jim's  they  went;  and  it  seemed  to  his  whim- 
sically watchful  eyes  that  she  had  an  occasional  mo- 
ment of  being  her  old  girlish  self  as  they  strolled 
through  the  wandering  streets  of  Greenwich  Village 
and  stepped  down  into  the  basement  oyster  and  chop 
house  that  had  made  its  name  a  full  generation  be- 


ONE   DOES    FORGET  385 

fore  Socialism  was  more  than  a  foreign-sounding 
word  and  two  generations  before  cubism,  futurism, 
vorticism,  imagism,  Nietzsche,  the  I.  W.  W.,  Fem- 
inism and  the  Russians  had  swept  in  among  the  old 
houses  and  tenements  to  engage  in  the  verbal  battle 
royal  that  has  since  converted  the  quaint  old  quarter 
from  a  haunt  of  rather  gently  artistic  bohemianism 
into  a  shambles  of  dead  and  dismembered  and  bleed- 
ing theories.  Jim's  alone  had  not  changed.  Even 
the  old  waiter  who  so  far  as  any  one  knew  had  al- 
ways been  there,  shuffled  through  the  sprinkling  of 
sawdust  on  the  floor ;  and  the  familiar  fat  grandson 
of  the  original  Jim  was  still  to  be  seen  standing  by 
the  open  grill  that  was  set  in  the  wall  at  the  rear 
end  of  the  oyster  bar. 

The  Worm  suggested  thick  mutton  chops  and  the 
hugely  delectable  baked  potatoes  without  which 
Jim's  would  not  have  been  Jim's.  Sue  smiled  rather 
wanly  and  assented.  Her  air  of  depression  disturbed 
him;  his  own  buoyancy  sagged;  he  found  it  neces- 
sary now  and  then  to  manufacture  talk.  This  was 
so  foreign  to  the  quality  of  their  friendship  that  he 
finally  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  rested  his  el- 
bows on  the  table  and  considered  her. 

"Sue,"  'he  remarked,  "it's  getting  to  you,  isn't  it 
—the  old  Village." 


386  THE   TRUFFLERS 

She  tried  to  smile,  and  looked  off  toward  the 
glowing  grill. 

"Why  don't  you  come  around  and  have  a  look  at 
the  rooms?  I  haven't  changed  them.  Only  your 
pictures  are  gone.  Even  your  books  are  on  the 
mantel  where  you  used  to  keep  them.  It  might  hook 
things  up  for  us,  so  we  could  get  to  feeling  and  talk- 
ing like  ourselves.  What  do  you  say — could  you 
stand  it?" 

She  tried  to  look  at  him,  tried  to  be  her  old  frank 
self;  but  without  marked  success.  The  tears  were 
close.  She  had  to  compress  her  lips  and  study  the 
table-cloth  for  a  long  moment  before  she  could 
speak. 

"I  couldn't,  Henry."  Then  with  an  impulse  that 
was  more  like  the  Sue  that  he  knew,  she  reached 
out  and  rested  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Try  not  to 
mind  me,  Henry.  I  can't  help  it — whatever  it  is.  I 
don't  seem  to  have  much  fight  left  in  me.  It's  plain 
enough  that  I  shouldn't  have  tried  to  come  in.  It 
was  just  a  crazy  reaction,  anyway.  You  caught  me 
when  I  had  been  hurt.  I  was  all  mixed  .  .  ." 

She  was  excluding  him  from  her  little  world  now  ; 
and  this  was  least  like  her  of  all  the  things  she  had 
been  saying  and  doing.  But  if  the  Worm  was  hurt 
he  did  not  show  it.  He  merely  said : 


ONE   DOES    FORGET  387 

"Sue,  of  course,  you've  been  going  through  a 
nervous  crisis,  and  it  has  taken  a  lot  out  of  you." 

"A  lot,  Henry,"  she  murmured. 

"One  thing  strikes  me — superficial,  of  course — I 
doubt  if  you've  had  enough  exercise  this  summer." 

"I  know,"  said  she.  "To-day  I  tried  a  few  steps 
' — that — old  Russian  dance,  you  know — " 

"I'd  love  to  see  you  do  it,  Sue." 

She  shook  her  head.     "I've  lost  it — everything." 

"You  were  stiff,  of  course." 

"It  was  painful.  I  just  couldn't  dance.  I  don't 
like  to  think  of  it,  Henry." 

He  smiled.  "One  thing — I've  decided  to  make 
you  walk  to  the  theater.  It's  two  miles.  That'll 
stir  your  pulse  a  bit.  And  we'll  start  now." 

She  looked  soberly  at  him.  "You've  lost  nothing, 
Henry.  The  work  you've  done  hasn't  taken  it  out 
of  you." 

"Not  a  bit.    On  the  contrary,  Sue." 

"I  know.    I  feel  it." 

"No  more  of  the  old  aimlessness,  Susan.  No 
more  books — except  a  look  at  yours  now  and  then, 
because  they  were  yours.  God,  girl,  I'm  creating! 
I'm  living!  I'm  saying  something.  And  I  really 
seem  to  have  it  to  say.  That's  what  stirs  you,  puts 
a  tingle  into  your  blood." 


388  THE   TRUFFLERS 

She  studied  him  a  moment  longer,  then  lowered 
her  eyes.  "Let's  be  starting,"  she  said. 

"Up  Fifth  Avenue,  Sue?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Henry!" 

They  walked  eastward  on  Waverly  Place,  across 
Sixth  Avenue.  She  paused  here  and  looked  up  al- 
most fondly  at  the  ugly,  shadowy  elevated  struc- 
ture in  the  twilight.  A  train  roared  by. 

"I  haven't  seen  the  city  for  two  months,"  she  said. 

"That's  a  long  time — for  a  live  person,"  said  he. 

The  dusty  foliage  of  Washington  Square  ap- 
peared ahead.  Above  it  like  a  ghost  of  the  historic 
beauty  of  the  old  Square,  loomed  the  marble  arch. 
The  lights  of  early  evening  twinkled  from  street 
poles  and  shone  warmly  from  windows. 

They  turned  up  the  Avenue  whose  history  is  the 
history  of  a  century  of  New  York  life.  Through 
the  wide  canyon  darted  the  taxis  and  limousines 
that  marked  the  beginnings  of  the  city's  night  activ- 
ity. The  walks  were  thronged  with  late  workers 
hurrying  to  their  homes  in  the  tenements  to  the 
south  and  west. 

The  Parisian  restaurant  was  bright  with  silver, 
linen  and  electric  lights  behind  the  long  French 
windows.  He  caught  Sue  giving  the  old  place  a 
sober,  almost  wistful  glance. 


ONE    DOES    FORGET  389 

At  Fourteenth  Street  they  encountered  the  ebb  of 
the  turbid  human  tide  that  at  nightfall  flows  east 
and  west  across  the  great  Avenue  and  picked  their 
way  through. 

Above  Fourteenth  Street  they  entered  the  deep 
dim  canyon  of  loft  buildings.  The  sweatshops  were 
here  from  which  every  noon  and  every  night  poured 
forth  the  thousands  upon  thousands  of  toilers — un- 
derfed, undersized,  prominent  of  nose,  cheek-bones 
and  lips,  gesticulating,  spreading  and  shambling  of 
gait,  filling  the  great  Avenue  with  a  low  roar  of  vol- 
uble talk  in  a  strange  guttural  tongue — crowding  so 
densely  that  a  chance  pedestrian  could  no  more  than 
drift  with  the  slow  current. 

The  nightly  torrent  was  well  over  when  Sue  and 
the  Worm  walked  through  the  blighted  district,  but 
each  was  familiar  with  the  problem ;  each  had  played 
some  small  part  in  the  strikes  that  stirred  the  region 
at  intervals.  Sue  indeed  pointed  out  the  spot,  just 
below  Twenty-third  Street  where  she  had  been  ar- 
rested for  picketing.  And  the  Worm  noted  that  she 
had  steadied  perceptibly  as  the  old  associations  bit 
by  bit  reasserted  their  claims  on  her  life.  She  was 
chatting  with  him  now,  nearly  in  the  old,  easy, 
forthright  way.  By  the  time  the  huge  white  facade 
of  the  Public  Library  came  into  view,  with  its  steps, 


390  THE    TRUFFLERS 

terraces,  railings  and  misty  trees,  and  the  cross- 
town  cars  were  clanging  by  just  ahead  at  Forty- 
second  Street,  and  they  were  meeting  an  occasional 
bachelor  diner-out  hurrying  past  in  dinner-coat  and 
straw  hat,  the  Worm  found  himself  chuckling 
again.  They  turned  west  on  Forty-second  Street, 
crossing  Sixth  Avenue,  Broadway  and  Seventh  Ave- 
nue, passing  the  glittering  hotel  on  a  famous  corner 
and  heading  for  the  riotously  whirling,  darting, 
blazing  devices  in  colored  light  by  means  of  which 
each  theater  of  the  congested  group  sought  to  thrust 
itself  most  violently  upon  the  bewildered  optic 
nerves  of  the  passer-by. 

Opposite  one  of  these  the  Worm  took  Sue's  arm, 
very  gently,  and  halted  her  on  the  curb.  The  eve- 
ning throng  brushed  past,  heedless  of  the  simply 
dressed  girl  who  yet  was  oddly,  boyishly  slim  and 
graceful  of  body,  and  who  was  striking  of  counte- 
nance despite  the  weariness  evident  about  the  rather 
strongly  modeled  mouth  and  the  large,  thoughtful 
green  eyes;  heedless,  as  well,  of  the  lank,  shabbily 
dressed  young  man  who  held  her  arm  and  bent 
earnestly  over  her.  They  were  atoms  in  the  career- 
ing metropolis,  uncounted  polyps  in  the  blind, 
swarming,  infinitely  laborious  structure  that  is  New 


ONE   DOES    FORGET  391 

York.  And  they  thought  themselves,  each,  the  cen- 
ter of  the  universe. 

"Sue,  dear,"  said  he,  "here  we  are.  You're  about 
to  see  yourself.  It  will  be  an  experience.  And  it 
won't  be  what  you're  thinking  and — yes,  dreading. 
I've  seen  it — " 

She  glanced  up  in  surprise. 

"Last  night — an  exhibition  to  the  newspaper 
men."  The  emotion  in  his  voice  was  evident.  She 
glanced  up  again,  something  puzzled.  "It  was  last 
night — afterward — that  I  decided  on  bringing  you 
in.  I  wouldn't  for  anything  in  the  world  have 
missed  having  you  here  to-night.  Though,  at  that, 
if  Mr.  Greatest  Publisher  hadn't  warmed  my  soul 
with  that  wonderful  blast  of  hot  air  I  probably 
shouldn't  have  had  the  nerve.  Of  course  I  knew  it 
would  be  an  ordeal.  It's  been  on  my  conscience 
every  minute.  But  I  had  to  bring  you,  and  I  believe 
you'll  understand  why,  two  hours  from  now.  I'm 
hoping  you  will,  Sue." 

He  hesitated.  She  waited.  Suddenly  then,  he 
hurried  her  across  the  busy  street  and  into  the  dim 
shelter  of  the  gallery  entrance. 

"Zanin  was  out  in  front,"  said  he,  "with  some  of 
the  newspaper  boys,  but  I  got  you  by." 


392  T*HE   TRUFFLERS 

Many  individuals  and  groups  were  detaching 
themselves  from  the  endless  human  stream  and 
turning  in  between  the  six-foot  lithographs  at  the 
main  entrance  to  the  theater.  More  and  more 
steadily  as  Sue  and  the  Worm  stood  in  the  shadow 
of  the  lesser  doorway  they  had  chosen,  the  crowds 
poured  in.  Others  were  turning  in  here  toward  the 
gallery  and  tramping  up  the  long  twisting  stairway. 

"Big  house!"  chuckled  the  Worm.  "Oh,  they'll 
put  it  across,  Sue.  You  wait !  Zanin's  publicity  has 
been  wonderful.  It  would  have  disturbed  you,  girl 
— but  it's  rather  a  shame  you  haven't  followed  it." 

Sue  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  She  was  leaning 
out  from  the  doorway,  trying  to  make  out  the  sub- 
jects of  the  two  big  lithographs.  She  finally  slipped 
across  to  the  curb  and  studied  them  a  moment.  Both 
were  of  herself,  half-clad  in  the  simple  garment  of 
an  island  savage;  over  each  picture  was  the  one 
word,  "NATURE,"  under  each  the  two  words, 
"SUE  WILDE." 

She  hurried  back  and  started  up  the  stairs.  The 
Worm  saw  that  she  was  flushing  again  and  that  her 
mouth  wore  the  set  look. 

On  a  landing,  holding  her  back  from  a  group 
ahead,  he  said:  "Do  you  know,  Sue,  part  of  the 


ONE   DOES    FORGET  393 

disturbance  you  feel  is  just  a  shrinking  from  con- 
spicuousness,  from  the  effective  thing.  Self -con- 
sciousness! Isn't  it,  now?" 

But  she  turned  away  and  kept  on* 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE   NATURE   FILM 

A 7  that  time  no  moving  picture  had  -been  given 
the  setting  that  Jacob  Zanin  devised  for 
the  Nature  film.  Zanin  had  altered  the  interior  of 
the  building  to  make  it  as  little  as  possible  like  the 
conventional  theater.  Only  the  walls,  galleries  and 
boxes  and  stage  remained  as  they  had  been.  The 
new  decorations  were  in  the  pale  greens  and  pinks 
of  spring  and  were  simple.  Between  foyer  and  audi- 
torium were  palms,  with  orchids  and  other  tropical 
flowers.  The  orchestra  was  not  in  sight.  The 
ushers  were  calm  girls  from  the  Village — students 
of  painting,  designing,  writing,  sculpture — dressed 
modestly  enough  in  a  completer  drapery  of  the  sort 
worn  by  Sue  in  the  pictures,  such  a  material  as  Phil- 
ippine women  weave  from  grasses  and  pineapple 
strands,  softly  buff  and  cream  and  brown  in  color, 
embroidered  with  exquisite  skill  in  exotic  designs. 
The  stage  before  the  screen  (Zanin  used  no  drop 

394 


THE   NATURE   FILM  395 

curtain)  represented  a  native  village  on  some  imag- 
inary South  Sea  Island.  The  natives  themselves 
were  there,  quietly  moving  about  the  routine  of  their 
lives  or  sitting  by  a  low  fire  before  the  group  of 
huts  at  one  side  of  the  stage. 

Very  likely  you  saw  it.  If  so,  you  will  under- 
stand the  difficulty  I  am  confronted  with  in  describ- 
ing the  place.  It  made  a  small  sensation,  the  theater 
itself,  apart  from  the  Nature  film.  But  a  penned 
description  could  not  convey  the  freshness,  the  quiet 
charm,  the  dignity  of  that  interior. 

The  dignity  was  what  first  touched  Sue.  The 
Worm  watched  her  sidelong  as  her  eyes  roved  from 
the  flat  surfaces  of  pure  bold  color  on  the  walls  to 
the  quietly  idyllic  scene  on  the  stage  that  managed 
to  look  as  if  it  were  not  a  stage.  She  exhibited  little 
emotion  at  first.  Her  brow  was  slightly  furrowed, 
the  eyes  thoughtful,  the  mouth  set — that  was  all. 
She  had  gone  through  the  difficult  months  of  enact- 
ing the  film  at  first  with  enthusiasm,  later  doggedly. 
She  had  early  lost  her  vision  of  the  thing  as  a 
whole;  her  recollections  now  were  of  doing  over 
and  over  this  -bit  and  that,  of  a  certain  youthful 
actor  who  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  a  girl  who 
would  dress  as  she  had  to  dress  the  character  could 
be  casually  made  love  to,  of  interminable  train 


396  THE   TRUFFLERS 

rides  to  the  outdoor  "locations,"  of  clashes  of  will 
between  Zanin  and  the  Interstellar  people — of  work, 
quarrels,  dust,  money  and  the  lack  of  it  and  a  cumu- 
lative disillusionment.  It  came  to  her  now  that  she 
had  lost  that  early  vision.  More,  she  had  forgotten 
the  sincerity  and  the  purpose  of  Jacob  Zanin,  that  be- 
neath his  cold  Jewish  detachment  he  believed  this 
thing — that  the  individual  must  be  freed  from  con- 
formity and  (as  he  saw  it)  its  attendant  hypocrisy 
by  breaking  the  yoke  of  the  home.  It  must  be  the 
individual — first,  last,  always — the  glad,  free  indi- 
vidual— the  will  to  live,  to  feel,  to  express. 

It  was  the  Village  jargon,  done  into  something 
near  a  masterpiece.  Sue  began  to  see  as  the  film 
unrolled  before  her  eyes,  reel  by  reel,  that  Zanin  had 
never  for  a  moment  lost  his  dream.  Even  now,  merely 
sitting  in  that  steep  crowded  gallery  waiting  for 
the  first  reel  of  the  ten,  Sue  knew  that  he  had  never 
lost  it.  Nor  had  Peter.  The  thought  was  exciting. 
It  brought  the  color  back  to  her  cheeks.  Her  lips 
parted  slightly.  She  was  feeling  again  the  enthusi- 
asm Peter's  scenario  had  roused  in  her  at  the  start, 
but  with  a  new  intensity.  The  Worm,  at  her  side, 
watching  every  slight  subtle  change  of  that  young 
face,  forgot  his  own  stirring  news  of  the  morning, 
forgot  that  he  was  Alexander  H.  Bates,  and  the  ex- 


THE   NATURE   FILM  397 

pression  of  a  man  who  had  been  long  hungry  crept 
into  his  eyes. 

The  Nature  film,  you  recall,  pictured  an  imag- 
inary people,  simple,  even  primitive,  untouched  by 
what  men  call  civilization.  To  their  secluded  island 
conies  the  ship  of  an  explorer,  suggesting  by  its  out- 
lines and  rigging  and  the  costumes  of  officers  and 
crew  the  brave  days  of  Captain  Cook,  or  perhaps  a 
period  half  a  century  earlier.  The  indefiniteness  of 
it  was  baffling  and  fascinating.  At  no  point  did  it 
date.  And  the  island  was  not  one  of  those  that  dot 
the  South  Seas,  at  least  the  inhabitants  were  not 
savages.  They  were  intelligent,  industrious,  gentle. 
But  the  women  hunted  and  fished  with  the  men. 
Love — or  passion,  at  least — was  recognized  for  the 
impermanent  gust  it  so  often  is — and,  as  such,  was 
respected.  No  woman  dreamed  of  tying  herself  for 
life  to  a  lover  she  no  longer  loved.  Neither  want 
nor  respectability  could  lower  her  pride  to  that 
point.  Fatherhood,  apparently,  was  not  fixed,  a 
hint  being  conveyed  that  the  men  as  a  group  were 
bound  to  contribute  to  the  welfare  of  young  moth- 
ers. Thus  the  men  were  perhaps  less  glad  and  free 
than  the  women ;  indeed  there  was  more  than  a  sug- 
gestion of  matriarchy.  ,  .  .  To  this  community, 
thrown  by  an  accident  on  its  shores,  the  hundred- 


398  THE  TRUFFLERS 

odd  men  from  the  ship  brought  a  habit  of  discipline, 
a  holy  book  (that  was  and  was  not  the  Bible),  a 
rigid  marriage  law,  a  complete  hard  theory  of 
morality  with  attached  penalties,  plenty  of  firearms, 
hogshead  upon  hogshead  of  strong  liquor,  and  un- 
derlying everything  else  an  aggressive  acquisitive- 
ness that  showed  itself  in  the  beginning  as  the  trad- 
ing instinct  and  later,  of  course,  became  politics  and 
control. 

In  some  measure  it  was  the  old  obvious  outcry 
against  the  conquest  of  weak  and  simple  peoples. 
Or  the  situation  at  the  start  indicated  something  of 
the  sort.  But  the  story  that  grew  out  of  the  situa- 
tion was  less  obvious.  Indeed,  developed  by  Peter, 
with  his  theatrical  skill,  out  of  Zanin's  raw  an- 
archism, it  was  a  drama  of  quality  and  power.  Za- 
nin  had  been  able  to  make  nothing  more  out  of  it 
than  a  clash  of  social  theories.  Peter  had  made  it 
a  clash  of  persons;  and  through  the  deliberate  de- 
velopment of  this  clash  ran,  steadily  increasing  in 
poignancy  and  tragic  force  straight  to  the  climax  of 
assassination,  the  story  of  a  girl.  Peter  himself  did 
not  know  how  good  it  was.  Not  until  he  read  about 
it  in  the  papers  (after  which  he  became  rather  irri- 
tatingly  complacent  regarding  it).  For  you  will 
remember,  Peter  was  crazily  pursuing  that  girl 


THE   NATURE   FILM  399 

when  he  wrote  it.  And  the  girl  was  boldly,  wonder- 
fully Sue — a  level-eyed,  outspoken  young  woman, 
confronting  life;  ashamed  of  nothing,  not  her  body, 
not  her  soul;  dreaming  beautifully  of  freedom,  of 
expressing  herself,  of  living  her  life,  vibrant  with 
health,  courage,  joy. 

The  girl,  you  know,  fell  in  love  with  a  young 
sailor  and  gave  herself  proudly  and  freely.  The 
sailor  could  not  comprehend  her,  became  furtive  and 
jealous.  They  quarreled.  To  quiet  her  he  was 
driven  to  brutality.  For  he  was  a  respectable  man 
and  held  his  reputation  high.  The  affair  became 
known.  The  men  of  the  ship,  muttering  strange 
words  about  a  custom  called  marriage,  held  her  as 
bad,  fell  on  the  age-old  decision  that  she  must  con- 
tinue to  be  bad,  at  their  call,  though  furtively.  For 
they  were  all  respectable  men. 

Then  we  saw  the  girl  as  an  outcast,  fed,  for  a 
time,  secretly  by  the  cowed  bewildered  tribe.  We 
saw  her  as  a  dishonored  mother,  righting  the  sea, 
the  forest,  the  very  air  for  sustenance.  We  caught 
glimpses  of  the  new  community,  growing  into  a  set- 
tlement of  some  stability,  the  native  men  forced  into 
the  less  wholesome  labor,  their  wives  and  daughters 
taken  and  poisoned  with  this  strange  philosophy  of 
life.  Then  we  saw  our  girl,  her  child  toddling  at 


400  THE   TRUFFLERS 

her  heels,  creeping  back  into  the  society  where  trade 
and  politics,  hard  liquor  (distilled  now  from  the 
native  grain),  that  holy  book  of  mysterious  spell, 
the  firearms  and  an  impenetrable  respectability 
reigned  in  apparent  security  over  smoldering  fires. 
And  finally  we  saw  the  girl,  not  at  all  a  penitent,  but 
a  proud  inspired  creature  of  instinct,  fan  those  fires 
until  they  purged  the  taint  of  sophistication  from 
each  slumbering  native  soul  and  drove  a  half-mad 
people  at  the  desperate  job  of  extermination  and  of 
reasserting  itself  as  a  people  on  the  old  lawlessly 
happy  footing.  They  burned  the  hogsheads  of 
liquor,  the  firearms,  the  heap  of  holy  books,  on  one 
great  bonfire. 

I  am  not  doing  it  justice.  But  this  much  will 
serve  to  recall  the  story. 

As  for  Zanin's  propaganda,  I  doubt  if  it  cut  in 
very  deeply.  Critics  and  public  alike  appeared  to 
take  it  simply  as  a  novelty,  a  fresh  sensation  as  they 
had  taken  Reinhardt  and  the  Russian  Ballet.  The 
primitiveness  of  it  reached  them  no  more  clearly 
than  the  primitiveness  of  Wagner's  operas  reached 
them.  The  clergy  stormed  a  bit,  of  course ;  but  not 
because  they  comprehended  the  deeply  implied  an- 
archistic motive.  They  were  concerned  over  Za- 
nin's rather  unbending  attitude  toward  a  certain 


THE   NATURE   FILM  401 

book.  And  Zanin,  delighted,  fed  columns  of  contro- 
versy to  the  afternoon  papers,  wrote  open  letters  to 
eminent  divines,  and  in  other  ways  turned  the  pro- 
test into  a  huge  success  of  publicity.  Then  a  profes- 
sional objector,  apparently  ignorant  of  the  exist- 
ence of  an  enticing  and  corrupting  "Revue"  across 
the  street,  haled  Zanin,  Silverstone  and  two  of  the 
Interstellar  people  into  court  on  the  ground  that  the 
costuming  was  improper.  This  matter  Zanin,  after 
the  newspapers  had  done  it  full  justice,  compro- 
mised by  cutting  out  twenty-two  feet  of  pictures 
and  one  printed  explanation  which  seemed  to  the 
professional  objector  to  justify  child-birth  out  of 
wedlock. 

No,  beyond  these  brief  attacks  of  virtue,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  see  that  the  great  city  did  not 
pulse  along  about  as  before.  Broadway  and  Forty- 
second  Street  held  their  usual  evening  throngs.  The 
saloons  and  hotel  bars  took  in  fortunes  from  the 
flushed,  sometimes  furtive  men  that  poured  out  be- 
tween the  acts  of  that  "Revue."  Gamblers  gambled, 
robbers  robbed;  the  glittering  hotels  thrived;  men 
bought  and  sold  and  centered  on  the  ugly  business 
of  politics  and  bargained  with  the  nameless  girls 
that  lurked  in  shadowy  doorways— but  furtively,  of 
course,  with  an  eye  to  respectability.  And  in  par- 


402  THE  TRUFFLERS 

sonages  on  side  streets  clergymen  studied  the  precise 
attitude  of  Paul  toward  the  doctrine  of  Free  Will 
or  wrote  (for  Sunday  evening)  of  the  beautiful  day 
that  was  close  at  hand  when  all  men  should  sing  in 
harmony  and  not  discord,  with  harp  accompani- 
ment. .  .  .  No,  I  think,  despite  Zanin's  pur- 
pose, despite  Sue's  blazing  faith,  what  really  tri- 
umphed was  Peter  Mann's  instinct  for  a  good  story. 
It  was  the  story  that  held  them,  and  the  real  beauty 
of  the  pictures,  and  the  acting  and  personal  charm 
and  sincerity  of  Sue  Wilde. 

All  this,  or  something,  held  Sue  herself.  For  it 
did  catch  her.  She  had  thought  she  knew  every- 
thing about  the  Nature  film;  whereas  she  knew 
everything  about  it  but  the  Nature  film.  At  first, 
naturally,  her  self-consciousness  clung  a  little ;  then 
it  fell  away.  She  sat  with  an  elbow  on  the  arm  of 
the  seat,  chin  on  hand,  never  once  taking  her  eyes 
from  the  screen,  hardly  aware  of  the  dense  audi- 
ence ^bout  her,  no  more  than  barely  hearing  the 
skilfully  selected  Russian  music  of  the  hidden,  very 
competent  orchestra. 

There  were  two  intermissions.  During  the  first 
she  tried  to  chat  and  failed.  In  the  second,  when  the 
Worm  suggested  a  turn  in  the  open  air  she  merely 


403 

shook  her  head,  without  looking  up.  And  that  hun- 
gry look  deepened  in  the  Worm's  eyes. 

Toward  the  end,  when  the  buffeted  but  unbowed 
young  woman  was  fighting  with  the  strength  of  in- 
spired despair  for  the  one  decent  hope  left  to  her, 
the  hope  of  personal  freedom,  Peter's  story  reached 
its  highest  point.  As  did  Sue's  acting.  The  girl 
herself,  sitting  up  there  in  the  gallery,  head  bowed, 
shading  with  a  slim  hand  her  wet  eyes,  leaned  more 
and  more  closely  against  the  dear  whimsical  friend 
at  her  side.  When  his  groping  hand  found  hers  she 
clung  to  it  as  honestly  as  the  girl  on  the  screen  would 
have  done. 

It  was  over.  For  a  moment  the  house  was  in 
darkness  and  silence.  This  was  another  of  Zanin's 
effects.  Then  the  lights  came  on  dimly;  the  con- 
cealed orchestra  struck  softly  into  another  of  those 
Russian  things;  the  primitive  people  on  the  stage, 
you  suddenly  saw,  were  quietly  going  on  about  the 
simple  business  of  their  village.  A  girl  like  Sue 
walked  on,  skilfully  picked  out  by  the  lighting.  The 
audience  caught  the  suggestion  and  turned  where 
they  stood  in  seat-rows,  aisles  and  entrances  to  ap- 
plaud wildly.  Still  another  Zaninesque  touch! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

APRIL !      APRIL ! 

SLOWLY  the  crowd  in  the  gallery  moved  out 
and  down  the  twisting  flights  of  stairs.  Sue 
slipped  her  arm  through  the  Worm's  and  silently 
clung  to  him.  They  were  very  close  in  spirit.  Down 
at  the  street  entrance,  she  said,  "I  don't  want  to  see 
anybody,  Henry."  So  he  hurried  her  across  the 
street  through  a  lane  in  the  after-theater  traffic  and 
around  the  corner  into  Seventh  Avenue,  heading 
south. 

"We'll  have  a  bite  somewhere,  Sue,"  said  he  then. 

Her  head  inclined  in  assent. 

"Somewhere  up  around  here  and  not  on  Broad- 
way. Where  we  won't  see  a  soul."  Her  arm  was 
still  in  his.  She  felt  him  draw  a  sudden  deep  breath. 
"Oh,  Sue — if  only  I  could  take  you  down  to  the  old 
rooms — make  a  cup  of  coffee — sit  and  look  at  you 
curled  up  in  your  own  big  chair — "  He  broke  off. 

Sue,  still  half  in  a  dream,  considered  this. 

404 


APRIL!  APRIL!  405 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Henry — if  you — " 

His  arm  now  pressed  hers  so  tightly  against  his 
side  that  it  hurt  her  a  little. 

"No !"  he  said  in  a  low  rough  voice.    "No !" 

She  was  silent. 

''Can't  you  see  what's  the  matter,  girl  ?  I  couldn't 
do  it.  I'd  never  let  you  go — never!  I'm  insane 
with  love  for  you.  I'm  full  of  you — throbbing, 
singing,  thrilling  with  you!" 

Again  he  stopped  short.  They  walked  on  slowly, 
arm  in  arm.  She  glanced  up  at  his  face.  It  was 
twisted,  as  with  pain. 

She  tried  to  think.  Every  way  lay  confusion. 
Suddenly  she  freed  her  arm. 

"Henry — "  she  began;  then  walked  on  a  dozen 
steps  before  she  could  continue.  "You  have  a  time- 
table, Henry?" 

"Oh— Sue!" 

"Please,  Henry!  I  can't  miss  that  late  train.  I 
have  no  key,  as  it  is.  It  will  be  difficult  enough." 

They  walked  another  block,  moving  steadily  to^ 
ward  the  Pennsylvania-Station-Herald-Square  re- 
gion whence  all  roads  lead  out  into  Long  Island  and 
New  Jersey.  She  did  not  know  what  he  would  say 
or  do.  It  was  a  relief  when  finally  he  found  the 
time-table  in  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her. 


406  THE   TRUFFLERS 

She  stood  tinder  a  street  light  to  puzzle  out  the 
cabalistic  tangle  of  fine  print. 

"What  time  is  it  now,  Henry?" 

He  held  out  his  watch  for  her  to  see. 

"Yes,  I  can  make  it.  I  hate  the  tube,  but  there 
isn't  time  now  for  the  ferry.  Come  as  far  as  Her- 
ald Square  with  me,  Henry." 

There  at  the  stairway  under  the  elevated  road  she 
gripped  his  hand  for  an  instant,  then  ran  lightly 
down  into  the  underground  station.  And  not  until 
the  smoky  local  train,  over  in  Jersey,  was  half-way 
out  to  the  village  that  she  now  called  home  did  it 
come  to  her  that  he  had  spoken  not  one  word  after 
the  little  episode  of  the  time-table.  She  could  see  his 
face,  too,  with  that  look  of  pain  on  it. 

She  rang  and  rang  at  the  door.  Finally  she 
knocked.  Aunt  Matilda  came  then,  silent,  grim, 
and  let  her  in. 

Her  room  was  as  she  had  left  it  when  she  rushed 
out  in  the  afternoon.  The  dancing  clothes  lay  on 
the  bed.  Rather  feverishly  she  threw  them  on  a 
chair.  The  Russian  costume  fell  to  the  floor.  She 
let  it  lie  there. 

She  slept  little;  but,  wide-eyed,  all  tight  nerves, 
lay  late.  She  heard  them  go  off  to  Sunday-school, 
at  quarter  past  nine.  The  children  would  be  back 


APRIL!   APRIL!  407 

at  eleven;  but  Mrs.  Wilde  and  Aunt  Matilda,  if  they 
followed  their  custom,  would  stay  on  to  church. 
That  is,  unless  Mrs.  Wilde  should  have  one  of  her 
nervous  headaches.  Sue  hoped  they  would  stay.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  by  noon  she  should  be  able  to  get 
herself  in  hand. 

She  lay  a  while  longer.  Then  went  down-stairs 
in  her  kimono  and  warmed  up  the  coffee  Aunt  Ma- 
tilda had  left  on  the  stove.  She  tried  to  eat  a  little 
bread,  but  had  to  give  it  up.  She  began  to  wonder, 
a  thought  frightened  now,  if  she  could  get  herself 
in  hand  by  noon.  Aunt  Matilda's  appearance,  when 
she  came  in,  had  been  forbidding.  This  morning  no 
one  had  come  near  her,  not  even  the  children. 

Slowly  she  mounted  the  stairs.  Aimlessly  she 
began  dressing. 

The  Russian  costume  on  the  floor  held  her  eye. 
She  picked  it  up,  fingered  it.  Then  she  put  it  on. 
One  of  the  red  boots  was  on  the  chair,  the  other  un- 
der the  bed.  She  found  this  and  drew  them  both  on. 
Next  she  got  the  gay  cap  from  the  closet. 

She  stood  before  the  mirror.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  color  was  slowly  returning.  She  slapped 
her  cheeks  to  hasten  it.  Her  thoughts  were  in  a 
strange  confusion.  Just  as  she  had  been  doing  all 
night,  she  tried  again  to  visualize  her  memories  of 


408  THE   TRUFFLERS 

those  hard  busy  days  of  working  out  the  Nature 
film,  tried  to  build  out  of  what  she  could  faintly, 
brokenly  piece  together  the  picture  as  she  had  now 
seen  it,  a  complete  created  thing.  But  it  was  a  jum- 
ble ;  it  always  went  back  to  a  bit  of  this  experience 
and  a  bit  of  that.  She  tried  to  believe  that  the  stir- 
ring, confident,  splendid  young  creature  on  the 
screen  was  herself.  .  .  .  She  pressed  her  palms 
against  her  temples.  She  could  have  cried  out. 

It  was  a  relief  to  fall  into  one,  then  another  of  the 
old  exercises  preliminary  to  the  dance.  She  went  at 
these  hard,  until  she  could  feel  the  warm  blood  tin- 
gling in  her  finger  tips.  Then  she  tried  out  that  dif- 
ficult Russian  step.  It  did  not  come  easily.  There 
was  effort  in  it.  And  her  balance  was  not  good. 
Then,  too,  the  room  was  too  small. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  ran  down-stairs, 
shut  herself  into  the  parlor,  moved  the  furniture 
back  against  the  walls,  went  methodically  to  work. 

Outside,  a  little  later,  the  human  materials  for  a 
romantic  comedy  were  swiftly  converging  on  her. 
She  did  not  know  it.  She  did  not  once  glance  out 
the  window.  She  heard  nothing  but  the  patter  of 
her  own  light  steps,  the  rustle  of  her  silken  costume, 
the  clinking  of  the  metals  in  the  heels  of  the  red 
boots  that  was  meant  to  suggest  the  jingle  of  spurs. 


She  heard  nothing  but  the  patter  of  her  own  light  step 


APRIL!    APRIL  I  '409 

Mrs.  Wilde  did  have  one  of  her  headaches.  She 
came  home  from  Sunday-school  with  the  children, 
leaving  Aunt  Matilda  to  uphold  the  good  name  of 
the  household  by  remaining  alone  for  church. 

When  the  tall  woman  and  the  two  little  girls — the 
girls  demure,  the  woman  gloomy  in  her  depth  of 
sorrow — turned  in  at  the  front  walk,  a  tall  young 
man,  in  a  baggy  old  gray  suit,  with  a  trick  of  throw- 
ing his  right  leg  out  and  around  as  he  walked  and 
toeing  in  with  the  right  foot,  was  rounding  the  cor- 
ner, rushing  along  with  great  strides.  His  brow  was 
knit,  his  manner  distrait  but  determined. 

The  parlor  door  opened.  Mrs.  Wilde  stood  there, 
speechless.  The  girls  crowded  forward,  incredu- 
lous, eager,  their  eyes  alight.  Becky  jumped  up  and 
down  and  clapped  her  small  hands.  Mrs.  Wilde  sup- 
pressed her  with  a  slap.  The  child  began  to  whim- 
per. 

Sue  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  flushed,  ex- 
cited, a  glowing  picture  from  a  Bakst  album. 

Mrs.  Wilde,  bewildered,  struggling  for  speech, 
gazed  at  the  outraged  furniture. 

Sue,  catching  a  new  sound,  stared  past  her  at  a 
lanky  figure  of  a  man  who  stood  at  the  screen  door. 
Then  with  a  sudden  little  cry,  she  rushed  out  to  him. 
He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  within.  Her  arms 


410  THE   TRUFFLERS 

flew  around  his  neck.  His  arms  held  her  close.  He 
lifted  her  chin  with  a  reverent  hand,  and  kissed  her 
lips.  He  did  not  know  there  was  another  person  in 
the  world. 

Mrs.  Wilde  swept  the  children  into  a  corner 
where  they  might  not  see. 

"Sue,"  she  cried.  "Are  you  crazy  ?  Have  you  no 
sense — no  shame?" 

Sue  threw  back  her  head,  choked  down  a  sound 
that  might  have  been  a  laugh  or  a  sob.  Her  eyes 
were  radiant.  "Thank  God,"  she  cried — "None!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

REENTER  MARIA  TONIFETTI 

IT  was  the  opening  of  Peter  Ericson  ("Eric",) 
Mann's  new  play,  The  Truffler,  at  the  As- 
toria Theater  on  Broadway  where  the  signs  never 
fail  and  where  to  have  your  name  blazoned  in  elec- 
tric lights  above  a  theater  entrance  is  to  be  adver- 
tised to  a  restless  but  numerically  impressive  world. 
Peter's  name  was  up  there  now.  It  was,  you  might 
have  supposed,  his  big  night.  But  Peter  was  not 
among  the  eight  or  nine  hundred  correctly  dressed 
men  and  women  that  pressed  in  expectantly  through 
the  wide  doorway.  Instead,  clad  in  his  every-day 
garments,  an  expression  of  ill-controlled  irritation 
on  his  long  face,  moody  dark  eyes  peering  resent- 
fully out  through  his  large  horn-rimmed  glasses,  he 
sat  alone  in  the  gallery,  second  row  from  the  front, 
on  the  aisle. 

Four  rows  behind  him  and  a  little  off  to  the  left,  ' 
sat  a  good-looking  young  woman,  an  Italian  girl 
apparently,  who  stared  down  at  him  in  some  agita- 

411 


412  THE   TRUFFLERS 

tion.  She,  too,  was  alone.  He  had  not  seen  her 
when  he  came  in;  he  did  not  know  that  she  was 
there. 

The  two  seats  in  the  front  row  across  the  aisle 
were  vacant  until  just  before  the  musicians  climbed 
from  the  mysterious  region  beneath  the  stage  into 
the  orchestra  pit  down  front  and  the  asbestos  cur- 
tain slid  upward  and  out  of  sight.  Then  a  rather 
casually  dressed  young  couple  came  down  the  aisle 
and  took  them. 

Peter,  when  he  saw  who  they  were,  stiffened,  bit 
his  lip,  turned  away  and  partly  hid  his  face  with  his 
program.  The  girl  was  Sue  Wilde,  the  one  person 
on  earth  who  had  the  power  of  at  once  rousing  and 
irritating  him  merely  by  appearing  within  his  range 
of  vision.  Particularly  when  she  appeared  smiling, 
alert  and  alive  with  health  and  spirit,  in  the  com- 
pany of  another  man.  When  a  girl  has  played  with 
your  deepest  feelings,  has  actually  engaged  herself 
to  marry  you,  only  to  slip  out  of  your  life  without 
so  much  as  consulting  you,  when  she  has  forced  you 
to  take  stern  measures  to  bring  her  to  her  senses — • 
only  to  turn  up,  after  all,  radiant,  just  where  you 
have  stolen  to  be  alone  with  your  otherwise  turbu- 
lent emotions — well,  it  may  easily  be  disturbing. 

The  other  man,  on  this  occasion,  was  the  Worm, 


REENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI     413 

Peter  knew  that  the  Worm,  like  Hy,  had  disap- 
proved of  the  steps  he  had  taken  to  waken  the  truf- 
fling  Sue  to  a  sense  of  duty,  the  steps  he  had 
been  forced  to  take.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  dis- 
approved of  by  old  companions;  particularly  when 
you  were  so  clearly,  scrupulously  right  in  all  you 
have  done.  Still  more  unpleasant  is  it  when  one  of 
the  disapprovers  appears  with  the  girl  whose  selfish 
irresponsibility  caused  all  the  trouble.  Sue's  evi- 
dent happiness  was  the  climax.  It  seemed  to  Peter 
that  she  might  at  least  have  the  decency  to  look — 
well,  chastened. 

I  spoke  a  moment  back  of  other  disturbances 
within  Peter's  highly  temperamental  breast.  They 
had  to  do  with  the  play.  The  featured  actress, 
Grace  Derring,  also  was  potentially  a  disturber.  If 
you  have  followed  Peter's  emotionally  tortuous  ca- 
reer, you  will  recall  Grace.  With  his  kisses  warm 
on  her  lips,  protesting  her  love  for  him,  she  had 
rewritten  his  play  behind  his  back,  tearing  it  to 
pieces,  introducing  new  and  quite  false  episodes, 
altering  the  very  natures  of  his  painstakingly 
wrought  out  characters,  obliterating  whatever  of 
himself  had,  at  the  start,  been  in  the  piece.  He 
had  been  forced  to  wash  his  hands  of  the  whole 
thing.  He  had  kept  away  from  Neuerman  and 


414  THE    TRUFFLERS 

Grace  Derring  all  these  painful  months.  He  had 
answered  neither  Neuerman's  business  letters  nor 
Grace's  one  or  two  guarded  little  notes.  It  had  per- 
turbed him  to  see  his  name  used  lavishly  (Neuer- 
man  was  a  persistent  and  powerful  advertiser)  on 
the  bill-boards  and  in  the  papers.  It  had  perturbed 
him  to-night  to  see  it  on  the  street  in  blazing  light. 
And  now  it  was  on  the  program  in  his  hand !  .  .  . 
To  be  sure  he  had  not  taken  steps  to  prevent  this  use 
of  his  name.  He  had  explained  to  himself  that 
Neuerman  had  the  right  under  the  contract  and 
could  hardly  be  restrained.  But  he  was  perturbed. 
So  here  was  the  great  night !  Down  there  on  the 
stage,  in  a  few  minutes  now,  Grace  Derring,  whose 
life  had  twisted  so  painfully  close  to  his,  would  be- 
gin enacting  the  play  she  and  Neuerman  had  re- 
built from  his  own  inspired  outburst.  Up  here  in 
the  gallery,  across  the  aisle,  one  row  down,  sat  at 
this  moment,  the  girl  who  had  unwittingly  inspired 
him  to  write  it.  She  was  smiling  happily  now,  that 
girl.  She  did  not  know  that  the  original  play — 
The  Truffler  as  he  had  conceived  and  written  it — 
was  aimed  straight  at  herself.  It  was  nothing  if 
not  a  picture  of  the  irresponsible,  selfish  bachelor 
girl  who  by  her  insistence  on  "living  her  own  life" 
wrecks  the  home  of  her  parents.  Peter's  mouth  set 


REENTER    MARIA   TONIFETTI      415 

rather  grimly  as  he  thought  of  this  now.  As  he  saw 
it,  Sue  had  done  just  that.  Suddenly — he  was  look- 
ing from  behind  his  hand  at  her  shapely  head;  her 
hair  had  grown  to  an  almost  manageable  length — a 
warm  thought  fluttered  to  life  in  his  heart.  Perhaps 
it  wasn't,  even  yet,  too  late !  Perhaps  enough  of  his 
original  message  had  survived  the  machinations  of 
Neuerman  and  Grace  Derring  to  strike  through 
and  touch  this  girl's  heart — sober  her — make  her 
think!  It  might  even  work  out  that  ...  he 
had  to  set  his  teeth  hard  on  the  thoughts  that  came 
rushing  now.  It  was  as  if  a  door  had  opened,  let- 
ting loose  the  old  forces,  the  old  dreams  (that  is,  the 
particular  lot  that  had  concerned  his  relations  with 
Sue)  that  he  had  thought  dead,  long  since,  of  inani- 
tion. .  .  .  Confused  with  all  these  dreams  and 
hopes,  these  resentments  and  indignations,  was  a 
thought  that  had  been  thrusting  itself  upon  him  of 
late  as  he  followed  Neuerman's  publicity.  It  was 
that  the  play  might  succeed.  However  bad  Grace 
had  made  it,  it  might  succeed.  This  would  mean 
money,  a  little  fame,  a  thrilling  sense  of  position 
and  power. 

Sue  glanced  around.  Her  elbow  gently  pressed 
that  of  the  Worm.  "It's  Peter,"  she  said  low.  "He 
doesn't  see  us." 


416  THE   TRUFFLERS 

The  Worm  glanced  around  now.  They  were  both 
looking  at  Peter,  rather  eagerly,  smiling.  The  emi- 
nent playwright  gazed  steadily  off  across  the  house. 

"He  looks  all  in,"  observed  the  Worm. 

"Poor  Peter" — this  from  Sue — "these  first  nights 
are  a  frightful  strain." 

"Pete !"  the  Worm  called  softly. 

He  had  to  see  them  now.  He  came  across  the 
aisle,  shook  hands,  peered  gloomily,  self-consciously 
down  at  them. 

"Hiding?"  asked  Sue,  all  smiles. 

Peter's  gloom  deepened.    "Oh,  no,"  he  replied. 

"Evidently  you're  not  figuring  on  taking  the  au- 
thor's call,"  said  the  Worm,  surveying  Peter's  busi- 
ness suit. 

The  playwright  raised  his  hand,  moved  it  lightly 
as  if  tossing  away  an  inconsiderable  thing. 

"Why  should  I  ?  I'm  not  interested.  It's  not  my 
play." 

The  Worm  was  smiling.  What  was  the  matter 
with  them — grinning  like  monkeys!  Couldn't  they 
at  least  show  a  decent  respect  for  his  feelings  ? 

"There  is  a  rather  wide-spread  notion  to  the  con- 
trary," said  the  Worm. 

"Oh,  yes" — again  that  gesture  from  Peter-— "my 
name  is  on  it.  But  it  is  not  my  play." 


.      REENTER    MARIA    TONIFETTI      417 

"Whose  is  it  then?" 

Peter  shrugged.  "How  should  I  know?  Haven't 
been  near  them  for  five  months.  They  were  all  re- 
writing it  then.  They  never  grasped  it.  Neuer- 
man,  to  this  day,  I'm  sure,  has  no  idea  what  it  is 
about.  Can't  say  I'm  eager  to  view  the  remains." 

The  orchestra  struck  up.  Peter  dropped  back 
into  his  seat.  He  raised  his  program  again,  and 
again  watched  Sue  from  behind  it.  He  had  man- 
aged to  keep  up  a  calm  front,  but  at  considerable 
cost  to  his  already  racked  nervous  system.  Sue's 
smile,  her  fresh  olive  skin,  her  extraordinary  green 
eyes,  the  subtly  pleasing  poise  of  her  head1  on  her 
perfect  neck,  touched  again  a  certain  group  of  asso- 
ciated emotions  that  had  slumbered  of  late.  Surely 
she  had  not  forgotten — the  few  disturbed,  thrilling 
days  of  their  engagement — their  first  kiss,  that  had 
so  surprised  them  both,  up  in  his  rooms.  .  .  , 
She  couldn't  have  forgotten!  Perhaps  his  muti- 
lated message  might  touch  and  stir  her.  Perhaps 
again  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Peter's  program  fluttered  to  the  aisle. 
He  drew  an  envelope  from  one  pocket,  a  pencil  from 
another;  stared  a  moment,  openly,  at  her  hair  and 
the  curve  of  her  cheek;  and  wrote,  furiously,  a  son- 
net. 


418  THE   TRUFFLERS 

He  crossed  out,  interlined,  rephrased.  It  was  a 
passionate  enough  little  uprush  of  emotion,  express- 
ing very  well  what  he  felt  on  seeing  again,  after 
long  absence,  a  woman  he  had  loved — hearing' her 
voice,  looking  at  her  hair  and  the  shadows  of  it  on 
her  temple  and  cheek — remembering,  suddenly,  with 
a  stab  of  pain,  the  old  yearnings,  torments  and  ex- 
altations. Peter  couldn't  possibly  have  been  so 
excited  as  he  was  to-night  without  writing  some- 
thing. His  emotions  had  to  come  out. 

The  lights  went  down.  The  music  was  hushed. 
There  was  a  moment  of  dim  silence;  then  the  cur- 
tain slowly  rose.  The  sophisticated,  sensation-hun- 
gry nine  hundred  settled  back  in  their  seats  and 
dared  the  play  to  interest  them. 

I  have  always  thought  that  there  was  a  touch  of 
pure  genius  in  the  job  Grace  Derring  did  with  The 
Truffler.  Particularly  in  her  rewriting  of  the  prin- 
cipal part.  On  the  side  of  acting,  it  was  unques- 
tionably the  best  thing  she  had  done — perhaps  the 
best  she  will  ever  do.  The  situation  was  odd,  at  the 
start.  Peter — writing,  preaching,  shouting  at  Sue 
— had  let  his  personal  irritation  creep  everywhere 
into  the  structure  of  the  play.  He  was  telling  her 
what  he  thought  she  was — a  truffler,  a  selfish  girl, 
avoiding  all  of  life's  sober  duties,  interested  only  in 


REENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI      419 

the  pursuit  of  dainties,  experimenting  with  pleas- 
urable emotions.  He  had  written  with  heat  and  force ; 
the  structure  of  the  piece  was  effective  enough.  The 
difficulty  (which  Grace  had  been  quick  to  divine)  was 
that  he  had  made  an  unsympathetic  character  of  his 
girl.  The  practical  difficulty,  I  mean.  I  am  not  sure 
that  the  girl  as  Peter  originally  drew  her  was  not  a 
really  brilliant  bit  of  characterization.  But  on  the 
American  stage,  as  in  the  American  novel,  you  must 
choose,  always,  between  artistic  honesty  and  "sym- 
pathy." The  part  of  commercial  wisdom  is  to 
choose  the  latter.  You  may  draw  a  harsh  but  noble 
character,  a  weak  but  likable  character,  you  may 
picture  cruelty  and  vice  as  a  preliminary  to  Wes- 
leyan  conviction  of  sin  and  reformation;  but  never 
the  unregenerate  article.  You  may  never  be  "un- 
pleasant." All  this,  of  course,  Peter  knew.  The 
adroit  manipulating  of  sympathy  was  the  thing, 
really,  he  did  best.  But  when  he  wrote  The  Truf- 
fler  he  was  too  excited  over  Sue  and  too  irritated 
to  write  anything  but  his  real  thoughts.  Therefore 
the  play  had  more  power,  more  of  freshness  and  the 
surface  sense  of  life,  than  anything  else  he  had  writ- 
ten up  to  that  time.  And  therefore  it  was  commer- 
cially impossible. 

Now  Grace  Derring  was  a  bachelor  girl  herself. 


420  THE   TRUFFLERS 

She  knew  the  life.  She  had  foregone  the  tradi- 
tional duties — marriage,  home-building,  mother- 
hood— in  order  to  express  her  own  life  and  gifts. 
She  had  loved — unwisely,  too  well — Peter.  Like 
Peter,  she  approached  the  play  in  a  state  of  nerves. 
As  a  practical  player  she  knew  that  the  girl  would 
never  win  her  audience  unless  grounds  could  be 
found  for  the  audience  to  like  her  despite  her 
Nietzschean  philosophy.  What  she  perhaps  saw  less 
clearly  was  that  in  her  conception  of  the  part  she 
had  to  frame  an  answer  to  Peter's  charges.  Prob- 
ably, almost  certainly,  she  supposed  the  play  some- 
thing of  a  personal  attack  on  her  own  life.  There- 
fore she  added  her  view  of  the  girl  to  Peter's,  and 
played  her  as  a  counter  attack.  If  it  had  been  real 
in  the  writing  to  Peter,  it  was  quite  as  real  in  the 
playing  to  Grace.  The  result  of  this  conflict  of  two 
aroused  emotional  natures  was  a  brilliant  theatrical 
success.  Though  I  am  not  sure  that  the  play,  in  its 
final  form,  meant  anything.  I  am  not  sure.  It  was 
rather  a  baffling  thing.  But  it  stirred  you,  and,  in 
the  third  act,  made  you  cry.  Everybody  cried  in  the 
third  act. 

The  curtain  came  slowly  down  on  the  first  act. 
The  lights  came  slowly  up.  A  house  that  had  been 
profoundly  still,  absorbed  in  the  clean-cut  present- 


REENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI      421 

ment  of  apparently  real  people,  stirred,  rustled,  got 
up,  moved  into  the  aisles,  burst  into  talk  that  rap- 
idly swelled  into  a  low  roar.  The  applause  came  a 
little  late,  almost  as  if  it  were  an  after-thought,  and 
then  ran  wild.  There  were  seven  curtain  calls. 

Down-stairs,  two  critics — blase  young  men,  wan- 
dered out  into  the  lobby. 

"Derring's  good,"  observed  one.  "This  piece 
may  land  her  solid  on  Broadway." 

"First  act's  all  right,"  replied  the  other  casually, 
lighting  a  cigarette.  "I  didn't  suppose  Pete  Mann 
could  do  it." 

Up  in  the  gallery,  Sue,  looking  around,  pressed 
suddenly  close  to  the  Worm,  and  whispered,  "Henry 
— quick !  Look  at  Peter !" 

The  playwright  stood  before  his  aisle  seat,  staring 
with  wild  eyes  up  at  the  half-draped  plaster  ladies  on 
the  proscenium  arch.  A  line  of  persons  in  his  row 
were  pressing  toward  the  aisle.  A  young  woman, 
next  to  him,  touched  his  arm  and  said,  "Excuse  me, 
please !"  Sue  and  the  Worm  heard  her  but  not  Peter. 
He  continued  to  stare — a  tall  conspicuous  man,  in 
black-rimmed  glasses,  a  black  ribbon  hanging  from 
them  down  his  long  face.  His  hand  raised  to  his 
chest,  clutched  what  appeared  to  be  an  envelope, 
folded  the  long  way.  Plainly  he  was  beside  himself. 


422  THE   TRUFFLERS 

The  crowd  in  the  aisle  saw  him  now  and  stared. 
There  was  whispering.  Some  one  laughed. 

Again  the  young  woman  touched  his  arm. 

He  turned,  saw  that  he  was  blocking  the  row, 
noted  the  eyes  on  him,  became  suddenly  red,  and 
stuffing  the  folded  envelope  into  his  pocket  and  seiz- 
ing his  hat,  rapidly  elbowed  his  way  up  the  aisle. 

Immediately  following  this  incident  attention  was 
shifted  to  another.  A  good-looking  young  woman, 
apparently  an  Italian,  who  had  been  sitting  four 
rows  behind  Peter  and  off  to  the  left,  was  strug- 
gling, in  some  evident  excitement,  to  get  out  and  up 
the  aisle.  Her  impetuosity  made  her  as  conspicuous 
as  Peter  had  been. 

Sue,  still  watching  the  crowd  that  had  closed  in 
behind  the  flying  Peter,  noted  the  fresh  commotion. 

"Quite  an  evening!"  she  said  cheerfully.  "Seems 
to  be  a  lady  playwright  in  our  midst,  as  well." 

The  Worm  regarded  the  new  center  of  interest 
and  grew  thoughtful.  He  knew  the  girl.  It  was 
Maria  Tonifetti,  manicurist  at  the  sanitary  barber 
shop  of  Marius.  He  happened,  too,  to  be  aware 
that  Peter  knew  Maria.  He  had  seen  Pete  in  there 
getting  his  nails  done.  Once,  this  past  summer, 
he  had  observed  them  together  on  a  Fifth  Avenue 
bus,  And  on  a  Sunday  evening  he  had  met  them 


REENTER   MARIA   TONIFETTI     423 

face  to  face  at  Coney  Island,  and  Peter  had  gone 
red  and  hurried  by.  Now  he  watched  Maria  slip- 
ping swiftly  up  the  aisle,  where  Peter  had  disap- 
peared only  a  moment  before.  He  .did  not  tell  Sue 
that  he  knew  who  she  was. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

PETER    STEALS    A    PLAY 

PETER  rushed  like  a  wild  man  down  the  stairs 
to  the  street.  He  looked  up  street  and  down 
for  a  cruising  taxi;  saw  one  at  the  opposite  curb; 
dodged  across,  behind  automobiles  and  in  front  of 
a  street-car.  A  traffic  policeman  shouted  from  the 
corner.  Peter  was  unaware.  He  dove  into  the  taxi, 
shouting  as  he  did  so,  the  address  of  the  rooms  in 
Washington  Square.  The  taxi  whirled  away  to  the 
south.  Peter,  a  blaze  of  nerves,  watched  the  dial, 
taking  silver  coins  from  his  pocket  as  the  charge 
mounted.  At  his  door,  he  plunged  out  to  the  walk, 
threw  the  money  on  the  driver's  seat,  dashed  into 
the  old  bachelor  apartment  building.  The  rooms 
had  been  lonely  of  late  without  Hy  and  the  Worm. 
Now,  his  mind  on  the  one  great  purpose,  he  forgot 
that  these  friends  had  ever  lived.  He  ran  from  the 
elevator  to  the  apartment  door,  key  in  hand,  hur- 
ried within  and  tore  into  the  closet.  He  emerged 

424 


PETER    STEALS    A    PLAY  425 

with  his  evening  clothes — the  coat  on  the  hanger, 
the  trousers  in  the  press — and  his  patent  leather 
shoes.  From  a  bureau  drawer  he  produced  white 
silk  waistcoat  (wrapped  in  tissue-paper)  and  dress 
shirt.  A  moment  more  and  he  was  removing,  hur- 
riedly yet  not  without  an  eye  for  buttons  and  the 
crease  in  the  trousers,  his  business  suit.  He  did 
not  forget  to  transfer  the  folded  envelope  to  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  dress  coat.  But  first  he  read  the 
sonnet  that  was  penciled  on  it;  and  reread  it.  It 
seemed  to  him  astonishingly  good.  "That's  the 
way,"  he  reflected,  during  the  process,  standing  be- 
fore the  mirror,  of  knotting  his  white  tie, — "when 
your  emotions  are  stirred  to  white  heat,  and  an  idea 
comes,  write  it  down.  No  matter  where  you  are, 
write  it  down.  Then  you've  got  it." 

He  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  long  serious  face 
that  confronted  him  in  the  mirror,  made  longer  by 
the  ribbon  that  hung  from  his  glasses.  His  hair  was 
dark  and  thick,  and  it  waved  back  from  a  high  fore- 
head. He  straightened  his  shoulders,  drew  in  his 
chin.  That  really  distinguished  young  man,  there 
in  the  mirror,  was  none  other  than  Eric  Mann,  the 
playwright;  author  of  the  new  Broadway  success, 
The  Truffler,  a  man  of  many  gifts;  a  man,  in 
short,  of  genius.  Forgetting  for  the  moment,  his 


426  THE    TRUFFLERS 

hurry,  he  drew  the  folded  envelope  from  his  pocket 
and  read  the  sonnet  aloud,  with  feeling  and  with 
gestures.  In  the  intervals  of  glancing  at  the  meas- 
ured lines,  he  studied  the  poet  before  him.  The 
spectacle  thrilled  him.  Just  as  he  meant  that  the 
poem  should  thrill  the  errant  Sue  when  he  should 
read  it  to  her.  He  determined  now  that  she  should 
not  see  it  until  he  could  get  her  alone  and  read  it 
aloud.  Once  before  during  this  strange  year  of  ups 
and  downs,  he  had  read  a  thing  of  his  to  Sue  and 
had  thrilled  her  as  he  was  now  thrilling  himself. 
Right  here  in  these  rooms.  He  had  swept  her  off 
her  feet,  had  kissed  her.  Well  .  .  .  He  smiled 
exultingly  at  the  genius  in  the  mirror.  Then  he  had 
been  a  discouraged  young  playwright,  beaten  down 
by  failure.  Now  he  was — or  shortly  would  be — the 
sensation  of  Broadway,  author  of  the  enormously 
successful  Nature  film,  and  following  up  that  tri- 
umph by  picking  to  pieces  the  soul  of  the  selfish 
"modern"  bachelor  girl — picking  it  to  pieces  so 
deftly,  with  such  unerring  theatrical  instinct,  that 
even  the  bachelor  girl  herself  would  have  to  join 
the  throngs  that  would  be  crowding  into  the  theater 
to  see  how  supremely  well  he  did  it.  More,  was  he 
not  minting  a  new  word,  a  needed  word,  to  describe 
the  creature.  "The  Truffler"— truffling— to  truffle ! 


PETER    STEALS    A    PLAY  427 

A  grand  word;  it  perfectly  hit  off  the  sort  of  thing. 
Within  ten  years  it  would  be  in  the  dictionaries ;  and 
he,  Peter  Ericson  Mann,  would  have  put  it  there. 
He  must  jog  Neuerman  up  about  this.  To-mor- 
row. Neuerman  must  see  to  it  that  the  word  did 
get  into  the  language.  No  time  to  lose.  A  publicity 
job!  .  .  .  Come  to  think  of  it  he  didn't  even 
know  who  was  doing  the  publicity  for  Neuerman 
now.  He  must  look  into  that.  To-morrow. 
Shrewd,  hard-hitting  publicity  work  is  everything. 
That's  what  lands  you.  Puts  your  name  in  among 
the  household  treasures.  People  take  you  for 
granted;  assume  your  greatness  without  exactly 
knowing  why  you  are  great.  Then  you're  en- 
trenched. Then  you're  famous.  No  matter  if  you 
do  bad  work.  They  don't  know  the  difference. 
You're  famous,  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  They  have 
to  take  you,  talk  about  you,  buy  your  books,  go  to 
your  plays.  Mere  merit  hasn't  a  chance  against 
you.  You  smash  'em  every  time  .  .  .  fame — 
money — power ! 

He  saw  the  simply-clad  Sue  Wilde ;  short  hair  all 
massed  shadows  and  shining  high  lights ;  olive  skin 
with  rose  in  it;  the  figure  of  a  boy;  all  lightness, 
ease,  grace ;  those  stirring  green  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  would  read  to  her  again.    His  sonnet !    From 


428  THE   TRUFFLERS 

the  heart — glowing  with  the  fire  that  even  in  his 
triumph  he  could  not  forget. 
She  would  listen ! 

The  third  was  the  "big  act";  (there  were  four  in 
all).  All  was  ready  for  the  artificial  triumph  that 
was  to  follow  it — trained  ushers,  ticket  sellers,  door 
man,  behind  the  last  row  of  orchestra  seats,  clap- 
ping like  mad.  Experienced  friends  of  the  manage- 
ment in  groups  where  they  could  do  the  most  good. 
Trick  curtains,  each  suggesting,  by  grouping  or 
movement  on  the  stage,  the  next.  Neuerman 
wanted  eight  curtains  after  the  big  act.  He  got 
them — and  five  more.  For  the  claques  were  over- 
whelmed. A  sophisticated  audience  that  had  for- 
gotten for  once  how  to  be  cold-blooded,  tears  dry- 
ing unheeded  on  grizzled  cheeks,  was  on  its  feet, 
clapping,  stamping,  shouting.  After  the  third  cur- 
tain came  the  first  shouts  for  "Author."  The 
shouts  grew  into  an  insistent  roar.  Again  and  again 
the  curtain  rose  on  the  shifting,  carefully  devised 
group  effects ;  the  audience  had  been  stirred,  and  it 
wanted  the  man  whose  genius  had  stirred  it. 

Behind,  in  the  prompt  corner,  there  was  some  con- 
fusion. You  couldn't  tell  that  excited  mob  that  Pe- 
ter Mann  hadn't  written  fifty  lines  of  that  cumula- 


PETER    STEALS    A    PLAY          429 

lively  moving  story.  It  was  his  play,  by  contract. 
The  credit  was  his ;  and  the  money.  But  no  one  had 
seen  him  for  months. 

After  the  tenth  call  Neuerman  ordered  the  foot- 
lights down  and  the  house-lights  up.  He  wore  part 
of  a  wrinkled  business  suit;  his  collar  was  a  rag;  his 
waistcoat  partly  unbuttoned.  He  didn't  know 
where  he  had  thrown  his  coat.  The  sweat  rolled  in 
rivulets  down  his  fat  face. 

Out  front  the  roar  grew  louder.  Neuerman  or- 
dered the  house-lights  down  again  and  the  foot- 
lights up. 

"Here,  Grace,"  he  said,  to  Miss  Derring  who 
stood,  in  the  shirt-waist  and  short  skirt  of  the  part, 
looking  very  girlish  and  utterly  dazed — "for  God's 
sake  take  the  author's  call." 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  take  it,"  she  replied. 
"I  couldn't  say  a  word — not  if  it  was  for  my  life!" 

"Me  take  it!"  He  was  mimicking  her,  from 
sheer  nervousness.  "Me  take  it  ?  In  these  clothes  ?" 

She  laughed  a  little  at  this,  absently.  Flowers 
had  come  to  her — great  heaps  of  them.  She 
snatched  up  an  armful  of  long-stemmed  roses ;  bur- 
ied her  face  in  them. 

Neuerman  waved  the  curtain  up  again;  took  her 
arm,  made  her  go  on.  She  bowed  again,  out  there, 


430  THE    TRUFFLERS 

hugging  her  roses,  an  excited  light  in  her  eyes ;  and 
once  more  backed  off. 

"For  God's  sake,  say  something!"  cried  the  man- 
ager. 

She  ignored  this;  bent  over  and  looked  through 
the  heaps  of  flowers  for  a  certain  card.  It  was  not 
there.  She  pouted — not  like  her  rather  experienced 
self  but  like  the  girl  she  was  playing — and  hugged 
the  roses  again. 

For  the  twelfth  time  the  curtain  rose.  Again  she 
could  only  bow. 

Neuerman  mopped  his  forehead ;  then  wrung  out 
his  handkerchief. 

"Somebody  say  something',"  he  cried.  "Ardrey 
could  do  it."  (Ardrey  was  the  leading  man.) 
"Where's  Ardrey?  Here  you — call  Mr.  Ardrey! 
Quick!" 

"I'll  take  the  call,"  said  a  quiet  voice  at  his  elbow. 

Neuerman  gave  the  newcomer  a  look  of  intense 
relief. 

Miss  Derring  caught  her  breath,  reached  for  a 
scene-support  to  steady  herself ;  murmured : 

"Why— Peter!" 

The  curtain  slid  swiftly  up.  And  Peter  Ericson 
Mann,  looking  really  distinguished  in  his  evening 
clothes,  with  the  big  glasses  and  the  heavy  black  rib- 


PETER    STEALS    A    PLAY          431 

bon,  very  grave,  walked  deliberately  out  front, 
faced  the  footlights  and  the  indistinct  sea  of  faces, 
and  unsmiling,  waited  for  the  uproar  that  greeted 
him  to  die  down.  He  waited — it  was  almost  pain- 
ful— until  the  house  was  still. 

Up  in  the  gallery,  Sue  Wilde,  leaning  forward, 
her  chin  propped  on  her  two  small  fists,  said : 

"That  beats  anything  I  ever  .  .  ."  She  ended 
with  a  slow  smile. 

The  Worm  was  studying  the  erect  dignified  fig- 
ure down  there  on  the  stage.  "You've  got  to  hand 
it  to  Pete,"  said  he  musingly.  "He  sensed  it  in  the 
first  act.  He  saw  it  was  going  to  be  a  knock-out." 

"And,"  said  Sue,  "he  decided,  after  all,  that  it 
was  his  play.  Henry,  I'm  not  sure  that  he  isn't  the 
most  irritating  man  on  the  earth." 

"He's  that,  all  right,  Sue,  child ;  but  I'm  not  sure 
that  he  isn't  a  genius." 

"I  suppose  they  are  like  that,"  said  Sue,  thought- 
ful. 

"Egotists,  of  course,  looking  at  everything  with  a 
squint — all  off  balance!  Take  Pete's  own  heroes, 
Cellini,  Wagner — " 

"Hush!"  she  said,  slipping  her  hand  into  his, 
twisting  her  slim  fingers  among  his — "Listen !" 

Peter  began  speaking.    His  voice  was  well  placed. 


432  THE    TRUFFLERS 

You  could  hear  every  syllable.  And  he  looked 
straight  up  at  Sue.  She  noted  this,  and  pressed 
closer  to  the  man  at  her  side. 

"This  is  an  unfashionable  play  (thus  Peter).  If 
you  like  it,  I  am  of  course  deeply  pleased.  I  did  not 
write  it  to  please  you.  It  is  a  preachment.  For 
some  years  I  have  quietly  observed  the  modern 
young  woman,  the  more  or  less  self-supporting 
bachelor  girl,  the  girl  who  places  her  independence, 
her  capricious  freedom,  her  'rights,'  above  all  those 
functions  and  duties  to  others  on  which  woman's 
traditional  quality,  her  finest  quality,  must  rest.  She 
is  not  interested  in  marriage,  this  bachelor  girl,  be- 
cause she  will  surrender  no  item  in  her  program  of 
self-indulgence.  She  is  not  interested  in  mother- 
hood, because  that  implies  self-abnegation.  She 
talks  economic  independence  while  profiting  by  her 
sex-attraction.  She  uses  men  by  disturbing  them, 
confusing  them ;  and  thus  shrewdly  makes  her  own 
way.  She  plays  with  life,  producing  nothing.  She 
builds  no  home,  she  rears  no  young.  She  talks 
glibly  the  selfish  philosophy  of  Nietzsche,  of  Artzi- 
basheff.  She  bases  her  self -justify  ing  faith  on  the 
hideous  animalism  of  Freud.  She  asserts  her  right, 
as  she  says,  to  give  love,  not  to  sell  -it  in  what  she 


PETER    STEALS    A    PLAY  433 

terms  the  property  marriage.  She  speaks  casually  of 
'the  free  relation'  in  love.  She  will  not  use  the 
phrase  'free  love' ;  -but  that,  of  course,  is  what  she 
means. 

"No  nation  can  become  better  that  the  quality  of 
its  womanhood,  of  its  motherhood.  No  nation 
without  an  ideal,  a  standard  of  nobility,  can  endure. 
We  have  come  upon  the  days,  these  devastating 
days  of  war,  when  each  nation  is  put  to  the  test. 
Each  nation  must  now  exhibit  its  quality  or  die. 
This  quality,  in  the  last  analysis,  is  capacity  for  sac- 
rifice. It  is  endurance,  and  self-abnegation  in  the 
interest  of  all.  It  is  surrender — the  surrender  to 
principle,  order,  duty,  without  which  there  can  be 
no  victory.  The  woman,  like  the  man,  who  will  not 
live  for  her  country  may  yet  be  forced  to  die  for  her 
country. 

"The  educated  young  woman  of  to-day,  the  bache- 
lor girl,  the  'modern'  girl,  will  speak  loudly  of  her 
right  to  vote,  her  right  to  express  herself, — that  is 
her  great  phrase,  'self-expression' ! — her  intellectual 
superiority  to  marriage  and  motherhood.  She  will 
insist  on  what  she  calls  freedom.  For  that  she  will 
even  become  militant.  These  phrases,  and  the  not 
very  pleasant  life  they  cover,  mean  sterility,  they 


434  THE   TRUFFLERS 

mean  anarchism,  they  mean  disorganization,  and 
perhaps  death.  They  are  the  doctrine  of  the  truf- 
fler,  the  woman  who  turns  from  duty  to  a  passionate 
pursuit  of  enjoyment.  They  are  eating,  those 
phrases,  like  foul  bacteria,  at  the  once  sound  heart 
of  our  national  life. 

"So  you  see,  in  presenting  this  little  picture  of  a 
girl  who  thought  freedom — for  herself — was  every- 
thing, and  of  the  havoc  she  wrought  in  one  perhaps 
representative  home,  I  have  not  been  trying  to  en- 
tertain you.  I  have  been  preaching  at  you.  If,  in- 
advertently, I  have  entertained  you  as  well,  so  much 
the  better.  For  then  my  little  sermon  will  have  a 
wider  audience." 

And,  deliberately,  he  walked  off  stage. 

On  the  stairs,  moving  slowly  down  from  the  gal- 
lery, Sue  and  the  Worm  looked  at  each  other. 

"I'm  rather  -bewildered,"  said  she. 

"Yes.  Nobody  knew  the  play  was  about  all  that. 
But  they  believe  him.  Hear  them  yelling  in  there. 
He  has  put  it  over.  Pete  is  a  serious  artist  now. 
He  admits  it." 

"There  was  rather  a  personal  animus  in  the 
speech.  Didn't  you  think  so  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.    He  was  talking  straight  at  you.    Back 


PETER    STEALS    A   PLAY          435 

last  spring  I  gathered  that  he  was  writing  the  play 
at  you — his  original  version  of  it." 

From  one  landing  to  another  Sue  was  silent. 
Then  she  said: 

"I  never  knew  such  a  contradictory  man.  Why, 
he  wrote  the  Nature  film.  And  that  is  all  for  free- 
dom." 

The  Worm  smiled.  "Pete  never  had  an  idea  in 
his  life.  He  soaks  up  atmospheres  and  then,  be- 
cause he  is  a  playwright  and  a  dam'  good  one,  he 
turns  them  into  plays.  He  sees  nothing  but  effects. 
Pete  can't  think!  And  then,  of  course,  he  sees  the 
main  chance.  He  never  misses  that.  Why,  that 
speech  was  pure  genius.  Gives  'em  a  chance  to  be- 
lieve that  the  stuff  they  love  because  it's  amusing 
and  makes  'em  blubber  is  really  serious  and  impor- 
tant. Once  you  can  make  'em  believe  that,  you're 
made.  Pete  is  made,  right  now.  He's  a  whale  of  a 
success.  He's  going  to  be  rich." 

"But,  Henry,  they'll  see  through  him." 

"Not  for  a  minute!" 

"But — but" — she  was  laughing  a  little — "it's  out- 
rageous. Here  are  two  successes — right  here  on 
Broadway — both  by  Peter — each  a  preachment  and 
each  flatly  contradicting  the  other.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  somebody  won't  point  it  out  ?" 


436  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"What  if  somebody  does  ?  Who'd  care  ?  The  pub- 
lic can't  think  either,  you  see.  They're  like  Pete,  all 
they  can  see  is  effects.  And,  of  course,  the  main 
chance.  They  love  his  effectiveness.  And  they  ad- 
mire him  for  succeeding.  I'm  not  sure,  myself,  that 
he  isn't  on  the  way  to  becoming  what  they  call  a 
great  man." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

A    MOMENT   OF    MELODRAMA 

THEY    wandered    into   the    crowded    lobby. 
Friends  were  there  from  Greenwich  Village. 
There  was  a  high  buzz  of  excitement.    Jaded  critics 
were  smiling  with  pleasure;  it  was  a  relief,  now  and 
then,  to  be  spared  boredom.    Peter  had  spared  them. 

Peter  himself  appeared,  wearing  his  high  hat — 
flushed,  his  eyes  blazing,  but  unsmiling.  He  held  a 
folded  envelope  against  his  shirt-front. 

Acquaintances  caught  at  him  as  he  passed.  One 
critic  publicly  congratulated  him.  It  was  an  ovation ; 
or  it  would  have  been  had  he  responded.  But  he 
saw,  out  near  the  entrance,  through  the  crowd,  the 
face  of  Sue  Wilde.  He  pressed  through  to  her  side. 

"Sue,"  he  murmured  in  her  ear.  "I  want  to  see 
you  ?  How  about  to-morrow  ?  Lunch  with  me  per- 
haps ?  I've  written  something  .  .  ." 

His  excited  eyes  wandered  down  to  the  paper  in 
his  hand. 

437 


438  THE   TRUFFLERS 

Sue,  smiling  a  little,  suddenly  rather  excited  her- 
self, pulled  at  the  Worm's  elbow.  That  young  man 
turned. 

"It  seems  to  be  across,  Pete,"  he  said  casually. 

Peter  glared  at  him. 

But  the  words  he  might  have  uttered,  by  way  of 
putting  this  too  casual  old  friend  in  his  place,  re- 
mained unsaid.  For  Sue,  demure  of  everything  ex- 
cepting eyes,  remarked : 

"My  husband,  Peter.    We  were  married  to-day." 

The  playwright  dropped,  in  one  instant,  from  the 
pinnacle  of  fame,  money  power,  on  which,  for 
nearly  two  hours,  he  had  -been  exultingly  poised. 
His  chin  sagged.  His  eyes  were  dazed.  A  white 
pinched  expression  came  over  his  long  face. 

"Married — to-day !"  He  repeated  the  words  in  a 
flat  voice. 

She  nodded.  "You  must  congratulate  us,  Peter. 
We're  dreadfully  happy." 

Peter  seemed  unable,  however,  to  say  anything 
more.  He  continued  to  stare.  The  beginnings  of  a 
low  laugh  of  sheer  delight  bubbled  upward  within 
Sue's  radiant  being.  Peter  heard  it,  or  felt  it.  Sud- 
denly he  bolted — out  through  the  crowd  to  the  side- 
walk. He  brushed  aside  the  enthusiastic  hands  that 
would  detain  him.  He  disappeared. 


A    MOMENT    OF    MELODRAMA      439 

There  are  conflicting  reports  as  to  what  occurred 
after  this.  The  Evening  Earth  described  the  inci- 
dent as  taking  place  on  the  sidewalk  directly  in  front 
of  the  theater.  The  Press-Record  had  it  on  the 
farther  corner,  across  the  side  street.  The  Morning 
Bulletin  and  The  Continental  agreed  that  the  woman 
pursued  him  through  the  stage  door. 

Outside  there,  the  traffic  was  heavy.  Street-cars 
and  motors  filled  the  street  from  curb  to  curb. 
Women  and  their  escorts  were  passing  out  of  and 
into  the  famous  restaurant  that  is  next  door  but  one 
to  the  Astoria.  The  sidewalk  was  crowded  as  al- 
ways in  the  theater  district  on  a  fine  September 
evening. 

MacMerry,  dramatic  critic  of  The  Standard,  was 
the  one  closest  to  it.  He  had  stepped  outside  to 
smoke  his  cigarette,  found  himself  at  the  play- 
wright's elbow,  and  spoke  pleasantly  to  him  of  the 
play.  He  noted  at  the  time,  as  he  explained  later  at 
his  club,  that  Mann  was  oblivious.  He  was  very 
pale,  stared  straight  ahead,  and  appeared  to  be  drift- 
ing with  the  crowd. 

The  stage  entrance  to  the  Astoria  is  not  around 
the  corner,  but  is  a  narrow  passage  leading  back 
from  the  street  on  the  farther  side  of  the  restaurant. 
It  was  at  this  point,  said  MacMerry,  that  Mann 


440  THE   TRUFFLERS 

came  to  a  stop.  He  seemed  dazed.  Which  was  not 
unnatural,  considering  the  occasion. 

As  he  stood  there,  a  young  woman  rushed  for- 
ward. She  was  of  an  Italian  cast  of  countenance, 
not  bad-looking,  but  evidently  in  a  state  of  extreme 
excitement.  Apparently  she  had  been  standing  close 
to  the  building,  watching  the  crowd.  She  had  a 
knife  in  her  hand. 

This  knife  she  wielded  on  the  playwright.  Three 
or  four  separate  times  she  stabbed  at  his  chest,  evi- 
dently striking  for  the  heart.  Trying  to  seize  her 
hand,  Mann  received  a  slight  cut  on  the  ringers. 
MacMerry  himself  finally  caught  her  forearm, 
threw  her  back  against  the  building,  and  took  the 
knife  away  from  her.  By  this  time,  of  course,  a 
dense  crowd  had  pressed  about  them.  And  Mann, 
without  a  word,  had  slipped  into  the  passage  leading 
to  the  stage.  Certainly,  when  the  policeman  got 
through  to  the  critic's  side,  Mann  was  not  there. 

They  talked  it  over  in  the  lobby.  There  the 
Worm,  catching  an  inkling  of  the  catastrophe,  took 
a  hand.  Learning  from  MacMerry  that  the  girl  was 
evidently  an  Italian,  he  put  forth  the  theory  that  she 
had  probably  mistaken  Pete  for  a  man  of  her  own 
blood.  Peter  was  dark  of  hair  and  skin.  Consid- 
ering this,  MacMerry  recalled  that  Peter  had  given 


A   MOMENT    OF    MELODRAMA     441 

no  sign  of  knowing  the  woman.  And  he  could  not 
recall  that  she  had  spoken  his  name.  He  and  the 
Worm  then  talked  this  over  with  the  newspaper 
men  that  came  rushing  to  the  scene.  The  theory 
found  its  acceptors.  The  Worm  pointed  out  that 
Peter  was  a  man  of  quiet  manners  and  of  consider- 
able dignity.  He  was  never  a  roysterer.  His  ideas 
were  serious.  It  was  not  likely  that  the  woman  had 
any  claim  upon  him. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  influence  working  in  Pe- 
ter's interest  was  the  fact  that  he  was  actually,  at 
the  moment,  bursting  into  a  big  success.  Every  one, 
newspaper  workers  among  the  others,  was  glad  to 
help  him  along.  It  was  the  thing  to  do.  So  by  mid- 
night all  had  agreed  that  it  was  a  case  of  mistaken 
identity.  Peter's  luck  held. 

Meantime  a  little  drama  more  real  than  any  Peter 
had  yet  been  credited  with  writing  was  taking  place 
behind  the  scenes. 

Act  four  was  short;  and  from  curtain  to  curtain 
Miss  Derring  held  the  stage.  Therefore  she  had 
no  knowledge  of  what  was  taking  place  in  her  dress- 
ing-room. Whether  Peter  came  back  with  any  co- 
herent intention  of  finding  Grace,  I  can  not  say.  It 
is  not  likely.  The  most  intensely  exciting  evening 
of  his  life  had  reached  its  climax  in  a  short  scene 


442  THE    TRUFFLERS 

in  which  a  young  woman  had  stabbed  him.  Imme- 
diately preceding  this  event,  he  had  encountered  the 
astounding  fact  that  the  girl  it  seemed  to  him  he 
had  always  loved  more  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world  was  married — married  to  his  old  chum. 

As  he  ran  through  the  dark  passage  from  the 
street  to  the  stage  door,  his  hand  still  clutched  the 
paper  on  which  he  had  written  the  sonnet  that  was 
to  touch  her  heart.  You  are  to  remember  that  this 
bit  of  verse  had  considerable  emotional  quality  and 
more  than  a  touch  of  grace.  He  had  written  it  on 
an  old  envelope,  seated  in  a  crowded  theater;  but 
then,  Schubert  wrote  wonderful  songs  on  restau- 
rant menus.  It  is  so  that  things  are  done  in  the 
world  of  temperament.  ...  I  don't  believe  he 
knew  what  he  was  doing,  then  or  later;  perhaps, 
until  the  next  morning.  If  Peter  ever  knew  what 
he  was  doing! 

The  curtain  was  already  up  when  he  slipped  side- 
wise  past  the  doorman,  through  the  vestibule,  on  to 
the  stage.  It  was  dim  and  still  back  there.  Far 
away,  beyond  the  great  shadowy  cluster  of  canvas 
and  wood  structures  that  made  up  the  fourth  act 
set,  he  could  hear  Grace's  voice.  Down  front,  by 
the  prompt  corner  stood  a  silent  little  group — four 


A    MOMENT    OF    MELODRAMA    443 

or  five  actors,  the  electrician,  the  mighty  Max 
Neuerman  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

Scene  flats,  six  deep,  were  propped  against  the 
wall.  He  had  to  pick  his  way  between  piled-up 
properties  and  furniture.  Two  stage  hands  moved 
aside  and  let  him  by.  He  was  conscious  of  feeling 
weak.  His  head  was  a  maelstrom  of  whirling  emo- 
tions. He  was  frightened.  He  couldn't  get  his 
breath.  It  wouldn't  do  to  stay  around  here — per- 
haps make  a  scene  and  spoil  his  own  play.  He  had 
no  means  of  knowing  for  certain  that  Maria  had  not 
escaped  MacMerry  and  pursued  him  up  the  passage. 
What  if  she  should  overpower  the  doorman — a  su- 
perannuated actor — and  get  at  him  again!  Even  if 
she  shouldn't,  he  might  faint,  or  die.  It  was  curi- 
ously hard  to  breathe. 

He  felt  his  way  past  more  scenery,  more  proper- 
ties. There  was  a  doorway  in  the  concrete  stage 
wall,  leading  to  dressing-rooms  on  a  corridor,  and 
more  dressing-rooms  up  a  twisting  iron  stairway. 

Grace  would  have  the  star's  room,  of  course.  She 
wasn't  a  star  yet,  but  Neuerman  was  featuring  her 
name  in  all  the  advertising.  '  That  would  naturally 
entitle  her  to  the  star's  room.  That  would  be  the  end 
room  with  the  outside  light.  The  door  was  ajar.  It 


444  THE   TRUFFLERS 

was  a  large  room.  Yes,  he  could  see  her  first  act 
frock,  over  a  chair.  And  Minna,  the  maid  who  had 
been  with  her  when — when  he  and  she  had  been  on 
rather  good  terms,  very  good  terms — was  sitting 
quietly  by  the  dresser,  sewing.  Minna  was  a  dis- 
creet little  person.  She  had  carried  notes  and  things. 
Still,  it  was  awkward.  He  would  prefer  not  having 
Minna  see  him  just  now.  .  .  .  He  was  weak. 
He  found  it  necessary  to  catch  at  the  iron  stair  rail 
and  steady  himself  .  .  .  Grace,  you  had  to  ad- 
mit, was  a  good  deal  of  a  girl.  It  was  rather  re- 
markable, considering  her  hard  life,  the  work,  the 
travel,  the — well,  the  one  or  two  experiences — how 
fresh  she  looked,  how  young,  how  full  of  magnetic 
charm.  Why,  Grace  was  twenty-eight  if  she  was  a 
day!  But  she  was  putting  the  play  over  in  great 
style.  You  had  to  admire  her  for  that.  It  was  too 
bad,  thinking  it  all  over,  that  their  relations  hadn't 
gone  quietly  along  on  a  friendly  basis,  that  emotions 
should  have  torn  her  so,  intensifying  her  demands 
on  him,  making  it  really  necessary  for  him  to  break 
off  wTith  her. 

He  plunged  into  the  dressing-room. 


CHAPTER  XL 

HIS    UNCONQUERABLE    SOUL 

THE  maid,  Minna,  sprang  up,  dropping  her 
sewing  and  giving  a  throaty  little  shriek. 

Peter,  steadying  himself  with  an  effort,  softly 
closed  the  door,  leaned  back  against  it,  and  frowned. 

"Good  God!"  he  said,  "don't  scream  like  that! 
They'll  hear  you  clear  to  Fiftieth  Street." 

The  girl  had  staggered  back  against  the  wall,  was 
supporting  herself  there  with  outspread  hands. 

"Mr.  Mann — you  frightened  me!    And — and — " 

Her  eyes  wandered  from  his  white  face  to  his 
shirt-front.  That  had  been  white.  It  was  now 
spotted  red  with  blood. 

He  stared  down  at  it,  fascinated. 

"Please,  Mr.  Mann,  will  you  lie  down  ?" 

She  hurried  to  clear  a  heap  of  garments  off  the 
sofa :  then  she  took  his  arm  and  steadied  him  as  he 
walked  across  the  room. 

"You  won't  let  me  call  a  doctor,  Mr.  Mann  ?" 

"Oh,  no!  Don't  call  anybody!  Keep  your  head 
shut" 

445 


446  THE    TRUFFLERS 

"But— but— " 

"Here,  help  me  with  these  studs." 

"You'd  better  take  your  coat  off  first,  sir." 

She  helped  him  get  it  off;  unbuttoned  his  waist- 
coat ;  untied  his  white  bow.  He  had  to  unbutton  the 
collar  himself,  holding  all  the  while  to  his  folded 
envelope. 

"It's  astonishing  how  weak  I  am — " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mann,  you're  bleeding  to  death !"  The 
girl  began  weeping. 

"I'm  not  bleeding  to  death!  That's  nonsense! 
Don't  you  talk  like  that  to  me — keep  your  head  shut ! 
It's  nothing  at  all.  I'll  be  all  right.  Just  a  few 
minutes." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mann—" 

Peter  glanced  nervously  toward  the  door.  "Shut 
up!"  he  whispered  huskily. 

She  got  the  studs  out  of  his  shirt,  and  opened  it. 
Beneath,  his  singlet  was  dripping  red.  She  drew  in 
a  spasmodic  long  breath,  with  a  whistling  sound. 

"Now,  for  God's  sake,  don't  you  go  and  faint!" 
said  he.  "I  tell  you  it's  nothing — nothing  at  all." 

She  was  crying  now. 

"Quit  your  blubbering!  Quit  it!  .  .  .  Here" 
— he  reached  painfully  into  his  pocket,  produced  a 
bank  note — "run  over  to  the  drug  store — there's  one 


HIS    UNCONQUERABLE    SOUL      447 

just  across,  on  the  corner — and  get  some  things — • 
bandages,  cotton,  something  to  wash  it  off  with. 
And  hurry !  I've  got  to  be  out  of  here  in  ten  min- 
utes." 

"You  won't  let  me  call  a  doctor,  Mr.  Mann?" 

"Call  nothing!  You  do  as  I  tell  you.  Under- 
stand!" 

She  took  the  money  and  slipped  out,  carefully 
closing  the  door  after  her. 

Peter,  flat  on  the  sofa,  peered  about  him.  He 
wished  the  room  were  less  brightly  lighted.  And  it 
was  disagreeably  full  of  flowers.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  them — like  a  funeral.  Doubtless 
it  would  have  -been  the  decent  thing  for  him  to  have 
sent  Grace  a  few  roses.  If  only  for  old  times'  sake. 
The  window  shade  was  swaying  in  the  soft  Septem- 
ber breeze — what  if  Maria  should  be  out  there  in 
the  alley,  peeping  in?  The  sweat  burst  out  on  his 
forehead.  Had  they  held  her?  God — if  they  hadn't. 

His  gaze  drooped  to  the  painful  spectacle  of  his 
own  person.  He  was  a  sight.  There  was  blood  all 
over  his  hands  now,  and  on  his  clothes.  The  paper 
he  gripped  was  stained  with  it.  It  had  got  on  the 
sofa.  It  was  on  the  floor.  The  door-knob,  the  door 
itself,  the  wall  beside  it,  were  marked  with  it. 

What  if  Grace  should  come  in!    What  could  he 


448  THE    TRUFFLERS 

say?  Could  he  say  anything?  His  mind  darted 
about  this  way  and  that,  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  This 
was  awful !  Where  was  that  girl  ?  Why,  in  Heav- 
en's name,  didn't  she  come  back  ?  It  seemed  to  him 
that  hours  were  passing.  He  observed  that  the 
blood  came  faster  when  he  moved,  and  he  lay  very 
still.  .  .  .  Hours — hours — hours! 

There  were  sounds  outside.  Some  one  ran  up  the 
iron  stairs.  Then  some  one  else.  People  were 
speaking.  The  act — the  play — was  over. 

He 'raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  There  was  an- 
other step  in  the  corridor,  a  step  he  knew.  He  let 
himself  slowly  down. 

The  door  swung  open.  Grace,  tired,  a  far-away 
look  in  her  eyes,  was  coming  slowly  in.  Then  she 
fairly  sprang  in — and  closed  the  door  sharply.  She 
was  across  the  room  before  he  could  collect  his 
thoughts  and  on  her  knees,  her  arms  about  him. 

"Peter!" 

"Look  out,  Grace.  You'll  get  all  covered  with 
this  stuff." 

Her  eyes,  wide,  horror-struck,  were  fastened  on 
his.  "Peter— how  awful !  What  is  it  ?  What  has 
happened  ?" 

Her  solicitude  was  unexpectedly  soothing.    His 


HIS    UNCONQUERABLE    SOUL      449 

self-respect  came  creeping  back,  a  thought  shame- 
faced.   He  even  smiled  faintly. 

"I  don't  know,  Grace,  dear.  Something  happened 
— out  in  the  street.  A  fight,  I  think.  I  was  walking 
by.  Then  I  was  stabbed." 

"Oh — oh!"  she  moaned,  "some  dreadful  mis- 
take!" 

"Isn't  it  silly!" 

"I'll  have  Neuerman  get  Doctor  Brimmer." 

"No— please— " 

But  she  rushed  out.  In  a  moment  she  was  back, 
with  an  armful  of  parcels.  "Poor  Minna — " 

"I  sent  her  to  the  drug  store." 

"Yes.  She  fainted.  She  was  bringing  these 
things.  They've  carried  her  into  Miss  Dunson's 
room." 

She  opened  the  parcels. 

He  watched  her.  He  had  forgotten  that  she  was 
so  pretty,  that  she  had  so  much  personality  even 
off-stage.  The  turbulence  in  his  heart  seemed  all  at 
once  to  be  dying  down.  A  little  glow  was  setting 
up  there  now.  The  little  glow  was  growing.  There 
was,  after  all,  a  great  deal  between  him  and  Grace. 
He  had  treated  her  shabbily,  of  course.  He  hadn't 
known  how  to  avoid  that,  She  was  a  dear  to  be  so 


450  THE    TRUFFLERS 

sweet  about  it.  ...  The  way  she  had  rushed 
to  him,  the  feel  of  her  firm  smooth  hand  on  his 
cheek,  the  fact  that  she  had,  right  now,  in  the  very 
moment  of  her  triumph,  forgotten  herself  utterly — 
that  was  rather  wonderful.  A  fine  girl,  Grace ! 

She  came  to  him  again;  opened  his  singlet  and 
examined  the  wounds. 

"I  don't  think  they're  very  deep,"  said  she. 
"What  a  strange  experience." 

"They're  nothing,"  said  he. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  not  do  anything  until  the  doc- 
tor comes." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  he. 

She  was  bending  close  over  him.  A  loose  strand 
of  her  fine  hair  brushed  his  cheek.  A  new  fever  was 
at  work  within  him.  He  kissed  her  hair.  She  heard 
the  sound  but  said  nothing;  she  was  washing  away 
the  blood  with  the  antiseptic  solution  Minna  had 
got.  He  caught  one  glimpse  of  her  eyes ;  they  were 
wet  with  tears. 

Suddenly  he  knew  that  the  sonnet,  on  the  en- 
velope, blood-soaked,  was  burning  in  his  hand.  He 
raised  it. 

"Careful,  dear!"  she  murmured.     "Don't  move." 

"We've  quarreled,  Grace — " 

"Yes,  I  know." 


HIS    UNCONQUERABLE    SOUL      451 

"I  haven't  been — decent,  even — 

She  was  silent. 

"But  when  I  saw  you  to-night — "  He  unfolded 
the  envelope.  "I  wrote  this  to-night.  Up  in  the  gal- 
lery .  .  ." 

Slowly,  in  a  low  voice  that  trembled  with  passion, 
he  read  it  to  her.  And  he  saw  the  tears  crowd  out 
and  slowly  fall.  He  had  his  effect. 

"Grace,  dear — " 

"Yes,  Peter." 

"I'm  tired  of  being  alone — tired." 

"I  know     .     .     ." 

"Why  shouldn't  we  try  the  real  thing — go  all  the 
way — " 

"You  mean — marriage,  Peter  ?" 

"I  mean  marriage,  Grace." 

Very  tired,  very  thoughtful,  still  in  the  costume 
and  make-up  of  the  part,  kneeling  there  beside  him, 
she  considered  this.  Finally  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his.  'I'm  willing,  Peter,"  she  said.  "I  won't  try  to 
deceive  myself.  It  is  what  I  have  wanted." 

The  doctor  came  then;  bandaged  him,  and  ad- 
vised quiet  for  a  few  days,  preferably  in  a  hospital. 
When  he  had  gone,  she  cried  with  a  half  smile: 
"You're  not  going  to  his  old  hospital,  Peter.  You're 
coming  home  with  me." 


452  THE   TRUFFLERS 

He  lay  there  in  a  beatific  dream  while  she 
changed  to  her  street  clothes. 

They  were  ready  to  go.  She  had  ordered  an  am- 
bulance, and  they  were  waiting.  There  was  a  knock. 

"Come  in,"  she  called. 

The  door  opened.  First  to  appear  was  a  breezy 
young  man  who  could  not  possibly  have  been  other 
than  a  press-agent — a  very  happy  press-agent.  Next 
came  a  policeman ;  a  mounted  policeman,  evidently, 
from  his  natty  white  cap  and  his  puttees.  Follow- 
ing were  half  a  dozen  newspaper  men. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Mr.  Mann,"  said  the  press- 
agent,  "but  they're  holding  the  woman,  and  the  offi- 
cer wants  to  know  if  you're  going  to  prefer 
charges." 

"I'm  not  going  to  prefer  charges  against  any- 
body," said  Peter  with  quiet  dignity.  And  then 
added:  "What  woman?" 

The  policeman  looked  straight  at  him.  "The 
young  woman  that  stabbed  you,"  he  said. 

Peter  made  a  weak  gesture.  His  dignity  was  im- 
penetrable. 

"I  really  don't  know  yet  what  it  was,"  he  said. 
"It  happened  so  quickly." 

The  press-agent  gave  the  officer  a  triumphant 
V)ok,  as  if  to  say:  "There,  you  see!" 


HIS    UNCONQUERABLE    SOUL      453 

"Do  you  think  you  could  identify  her?"  This 
from  the  officer. 

"No,"  said  Peter.  "I'm  afraid  I  couldn't.  My 
thoughts  were  anywhere  but  there." 

They  went  away  then.  The  reporters  hung 
eagerly  on  the  sin ;  but  the  press-agent  hustled  them 
out. 

Grace,  subdued,  thinking  hard,  took  her  hat  from 
the  wall  rack.  A  woman  had  stabbed  him.  Grace 
knew,  none  better,  that  her  Peter  was  an  extremely 
subtle  and  plausible  young  man. 

But  she  had  wanted  him.  She  had  got  him.  And 
she  let  it  go  at  that.  In  the  ambulance,  all  the  way 
to  her  rooms,  her  arm  was  under  his  head,  her  smile 
was  instant  when  his  roving  gaze  sought  her  face. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  grateful,  that  he 
wanted  her  there.  This  was  something.  And  the 
poor  boy  was  suffering! 

Once  he  spoke.  He  was  very  weak.  And  there 
was  noise  in  the  street.  She  had  to  bend  close  to 
hear  him. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"That  press-agent — I  should  have  talked  with 
him — something  very  important.  .  .  ." 

Sue  and  her  new  husband  rode  down  to  Wash- 


454  THE    TRUFFLERS 

ington  Square  on  the  bus,  and  wandered  over  into 
Greenwich  Village.  It  was  midnight.  There  were 
few  signs  of  life  along  the  twisted  streets  and  about 
the  little  triangular  parks.  But  Jim's  was  open. 

They  had  Welsh  rabbits  and  coffee.  The  Worm 
lighted  his  caked  old  brier  pipe. 

"Been  thinking  over  Pete's  speech,  Susan," 
said  he. 

"Of  course.    So  have  I." 

"As  I  recall  it,  the  gist  of  it" —  the  Worm's  lean 
face  bore  the  quizzically  thoughtful  expression  that 
she  loved  to  see  there;  she  watched  it  now — "Pete 
uses  the  word  'truffler'  to  mean  a  young  woman  who 
turns  from  duty  to  the  pursuit  of  enjoyment.  Those 
were  pretty  nearly  his  words,  weren't  they?" 

"Almost  exactly." 

"The  Truffler,  according  to  Pete,  builds  no  home, 
rears  no  young,  produces  nothing.  She  goes  in  for 
self-expression  instead  of  self -abnegation.  She  is 
out  for  herself,  hunting  the  truffles,  the  delicate  bits, 
playing  with  love  and  with  life.  That's  about  it?" 

"Just  about,  Henry." 

"Well,  in  applying  it  only  to  women,  Pete  was  ar- 
bitrary. For  he  was  not  defining  a  feminine  quality 
— he  was  defining  a  human  quality,  surely  more 
commonly  found  among  members  of  his  own  sex. 


HIS    UNCONQUERABLE    SOUL      455 

No" — he  clamped  his  lips  around  his  pipe  stem, 
puffed  and  grinned — "no,  Pete  has  done  a  funny 
thing,  a  very  funny  thing.  The  exasperating  part 
of  it  is  that  he  will  never  know.  Do  you  get  me  ?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"Why — Pete's  the  original  George  W.  Dogberry. 
He  has  described  himself.  That  little  analysis  is  a 
picture  of  his  own  life  these  past  years.  Could  any- 
thing illustrate  it  more  perfectly  than  the  way  he 
stole  that  play  to-night?  Self-interest?  Self-ex- 
pression? That's  Pete.  Hunting  the  delicate  bits  ?" 
He  checked  himself;  he  had  not  told  Sue  about 
Maria  Tonifetti.  He  didn't  propose  to  tell  her. 
"When  has  he  built  a  home?  When  has  he  reared 
any  young?  When  has  he  failed  to  assert  his 
Nietzschean  ego  ?  When  has  he  failed  to  yield  to  the 
Freudian  wish  ?  Who,  I  wonder,  has  free-loved  more 
widely.  Why,  not  Hy  Lowe  himself.  And  poor 
Hy  is  a  chastened  soul  now.  Betty's  got  him 
smothered,  going  to  marry  him  after  the  divorce 
— if  he  has  a  job  then.  Waters  Cory  ell  told  me. 
.  .  .  No" — he  removed  his  pipe  and  blew  a 
meditative  ring  of  smoke — "no,  dear  little  girl, 
whatever  the  pestiferous  Pete  may  think,  or  think 
he  thinks,  you  are  not  the  Truffler.  Not  you !  No, 
the  Truffler  is  Peter  Ericson  Mann." 


456  THE   TRUFFLERS 

They  wandered  home  at  one  o'clock — home  to 
the  dingy  little  apartment  on  Tenth  Street  that  had 
been  her  rooms  and  later  his  rooms.  It  was  their 
rooms  now.  And  the  old  quarters  were  not  dingy, 
or  bare  or  wanting  in  outlook,  to  the  two  young  per- 
sons who  let  themselves  in  and  stood  silently, 
breathlessly  there,  she  pressing  close  to  his  side; 
they  were  a  golden  palace,  brushed  by  wings  of 
light. 

"Henry,"  she  whispered,  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
her  wet  face  on  his  breast,  her  heart  beating  tu- 
multuously  against  his — "Henry,  I  want  us  to  build 
a  home,  to — to  produce  .  .  ." 

With  awe  and  a  prayer  in  his  heart,  he  kissed  her. 


THE  END 


A     000124870     7 


